


The Nightingale's Tune

by FallenGabriella



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, Galen Deserves Better, M/M, Multi, Orson is a bigger Arse, Tarkin is an Arse, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenGabriella/pseuds/FallenGabriella
Summary: Galen Erso is put under the care of Grand Moff Tarkin, reigniting some old tensions along the way.((Written as a series of semi-long snippets.))





	1. Name (Tarkin/Galen)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wilhuffnpuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilhuffnpuff/gifts).



> Originally, this was just a Galen/Tarkin, because I saw the pairing and fell in love, so... R.I.P me. I just really, really wanted Tarkin protecting Galen from Orson, because he's really the only one that could (besides Vader or Palpatine), and Orson just can't handle Tarkin taking one of his toys... While also wanting to be one of Tarkin's. Really, he's insufferable. Anyway, lots of pairings and madness to be revealed as things progress.
> 
> In other words: Tarkin is a massive emotionless clod, and everybody loves him.
> 
> Also, old history with which to create angst? Count me in.

“Galen.”

They used to say there was power in such things. And he believed it, what they said, whoever they were. His mind was too fogged by grief, from the loss of his wife, and the worry of his daughter, to conjured anything more than ‘anonymous’. His triple loaded schedule didn’t help either, Krennic’s seeming ineptitude in the face of a project as massive as the Death Star, were proven in every spare millisecond of every cycle. Some small, cruel part of him was glad for that, actually… It helped to distract from the need to remove his hair roughly, tearing it follicle by follicle, until his scalp was nothing but a bald mess of rust and crimson. Or biting at his nails till they were down to the wick, broken and jagged enough to tear his eyes out, just so he wouldn’t have to keep rubbing them… So that the tears would stop. But even that was a lie, as all that awaited underneath his lashes were the deserts of Tatooine, barren and lonely, and he was left with nothing but dry, agonized sobs.

He couldn’t seem to find sleep either, not that he wanted it anyway, the guilt of what he was creating – the destruction and chaos and pain it would no doubt cause – were enough to keep him up at night. Lyra had been good at fighting those nightmares, his conscious assured in that it would take at least another thirty years for the monstrosity to be finished, and that it would have little reason to set its sights upon the world they occupied. But there was just as much suffering to be had, in knowing that he could have done something, but chose not to, for the same selfish petty reasons: peace, quiet… family. He could have returned to the Empire, spied, thwarted, but he chose the comforts only his wife and daughter were capable of providing. So many ‘friends’ lost, on both sides of the conflict, pulling him this way and that when all he’d ever wanted –

Galen stopped upon the threshold of leaving, his bleary, burning eyes – they were always like that these days – widening by a fraction. His pupils hurt, expanding in the dim lighting of the chamber too much, twitching violently from side-to-side. The world shook, a headache pounding at the back of his skull, but the voice grounded him in an instant. Clipped. Cool. Calm and lilted with the softest curve of an accent, from a planet he’d heard of, but never seen. Honed to a dangerous edge, yet laced with an elegance that bellied the wild that had birthed it. Of the verdant forest with monsters that could swallow a man whole, yet one had risen from the maw, ready to devour the whole of the universe at his leisure. No, no… That was wrong, for doing so would destroy it, and he had never been one for such petty acts. He would bring it to heel, take it, bend and break, then remake it into something useful. Something fit for service, ready to stand at parade rest for him when he was ready.

He turned, shuddering under the weight of that blue, but that wasn’t right either. Such a simple word for the living ice he found himself staring into, because steel would never be a proper fit. Steel, under the right temperature, when overexposed, could become brittle and break. Ice was hard, unforgiving, froze even in the smallest form, and when it melted, it gave way to water. To the sea, and to the unforgiving blackness underneath, ready to swallow whole any fool that had not taken the mercy offered before.

Galen lowered his gaze, though he could feel the Grand Moff’s, freezing him in place, pinning him there through sheer force of will. He found solace in staring at the insignia on the carpet, tracing the lines of it with subtle shifts of his eyes, and he was halfway finished when he realized –

 _Galen_.

He’d… His irises widened once more, the dawning comprehension barely concealed upon his face. His temples throbbed anew then, with the ill pounding of his heart suddenly resounding through his chest, beating a fresh agony into the core of his ribs. There was an exhale across the room, too sharp and impatient to be a sigh, but he supposed that was the closest Wilhuff Tarkin could come.

“You’re dismissed.” Short, as was his nature, and neutral. Galen didn’t look up, he rapidly fled through the doors, and down the hallway.


	2. Sleep (Tarkin/Galen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take better care of your boyfriend Tarkin.

His body needed it more than anything, but he evaded it with cups and cups of Caf. They were piled high on his desk, mountains of them, ready to topple at a second’s notice. He didn’t, because a few shards splattered across the floor were a small price to pay, in the face of the terrors that hounded him when the monster at the corners of his vision won. His assistants looked worried, and he found them oddly endearing, what with how easily they fretted over him.

Galen forgot how it happened, his memories turning to fuzz between the sleeplessness, the Caf, and the blurred lines on white, blue, and black parchment. Plans, both interior and exterior, melding into strange shapes, accented only by chalk, lights, and ink. He could feel them on his fingers, the residue deep in his nails, like the dried flecks of Lyra’s blood.

He awoke to shadows, moving in and out of the light above him, his eyes narrowing to discern them. Galen felt ready to rise, his muscles singing to greet what he thought was another nightmare – would it just be Lyra this time? Or would he witness his little Stardust crumple to the ground as well? To be trampled, and turned to less than ash, under the gaze of that false moon? They were moving too quickly though, speaking in voices he recognized, but were still so unfamiliar. One of them wasn’t moving though, remaining above him, and blocking out a fair portion of the florescent glow above. He almost wished whoever it was would move, so he could blind himself…

He felt something graze his cheek. Cool for the most part, warmer as whatever it was followed the edge of his face, stroking along the wave of his thick brow. They paused – fingers, he realized, they were fingers – long and as narrow as the man who owned them, two of them rising, and he was acutely aware of how they did so. Along his hair line, the pads traced, and the knuckles of the rest of the hand followed suit. They extended, and Galen felt every willowy breadth of them as they did so, caressing to the ends his deep silver, errant strands.

His nostrils flared, something sweet and subtle filling his lungs, and he inhaled sharply to take in the lovely, clean warmth of freshly pressed cotton. But there was something else as well, soothing and familiar. He loved it instantly, because it took him back, not to Lyra or his Stardust, but to his boyhood in fields of waving purple. The buds grazed his pants, catching, and leaving hundreds of petals in his shoes, the breeze carrying it higher to tangle in his hair. It was nauseating, how strong it was, but he would love nothing more than to roll in it for hours...

He didn’t mean to, didn’t want to – he wanted to stay numb and despondent to the rest of the world as long as he could. Let his grief eat him from the inside out, but the hand was so gentle, and he allowed himself to pretend there was some amount of affection to the gesture. So much so that he turned his head, trying to catch more of that soothing touch.

But it was gone in an instant, leaving only lonely emptiness in its wake, and slowly, the world came back into focus. His head was cushioned on something, but he knew he was still on the floor. His back ached from it, as did the side of his head, and he could feel the beginnings of something sticky drying in his hair. There were now only two voices where there had been many, and he finally registered the sharp, strong features of the Grand Moff overhead. His face was hollowed by the angle, made harsh and jagged by the peaks of his cheeks, and the thin crest of his lips. Galen swore he could see the corner of them twitching, as well as his long nose, but he chalked that up to his eyes continuing to play tricks on him.

It took longer still for him to see Krennic, the cut of his sky orbs distant and hateful, spitting embers, as his lips did spittle. He got like that when he was angry, Galen remembered, the nasty snarl that his face twisted into, reminding him of books of wild animals he’d had his nose pressed into as a boy. Their words were hard to make out, as if his head were underwater, and Galen distantly remembered closing his eyes again… Letting the cruel kiss of sleep touch the dried blood on his brow.


	3. Adaption (Tarkin/Galen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hateful, little shit Orson incoming.

Things were different under the Grand Moff, much different. For one thing, he worked eight hours a day, and no more, despite heavy opposition from Krennic. “This will set us back five years, at least! Do you have any idea the gravity of this?! We’re talking about the end of the Rebellion, the christening of a new age for the Empire, and you’re throwing it all away for– “Tarkin had said nothing, simply allowed the Director to rail at him for the better part of a quarter of an hour. Finally, after his patience had eroded to splinters – and Galen would know – the older man had leveled him with such a severe look, that Orson fell blessedly silent. Though there was no denying the simmer of fury in his eyes, nearly boiling over, and the Engineer wondered how much farther either could be pushed before true, physical violence became the only option.

“I’m well aware of your continued belief in this trifling errand,” Wilhuff replied, with flat rigidity that bellied the hawk’s wings unfurling as a smile on the Grand Moff’s face, so forced and sharp it cut down to the marrow. “However, Galen Erso is only human, and requires proper upkeep, if he is to maintain the strength necessary to see the project to its completion.” He spoke as if he were not in the room, and privy to every word that dripped from his bloodless lips with constrained patience and malice. “And when this supposed Messiah among technology is complete, I expect him to still be functioning, quite well in fact, so that he may continue with his impressive roster of accomplishments in the name of the Empire.”

He’d single-handedly, with a few spoken words, dismantled and gutted Krennic. Tarkin had also pressed every single soft, pussy spot that the Director had: from mocking the Death Star as a failure like all other practical geniuses of their time, his disregard for a valuable charge (though Galen had no doubt that Krennic saw him as a necessary nuisance, babysitting him something that should be far beneath him), and that it was all of Galen’s work – not Krennic’s – that was responsible for bringing it this far. And… that this project would be nothing, as compared to what he would go on to achieve on his own.

He might have been flattered… Had he not been described as a dog, a show runner at best, or a rather smart mutt at worst. He might have been able to feign a smile, if the grief and numbness would abate for even a second, though he doubted he’d feel much of anything else till he died. In the end, he was rather thankful for the two emotions that seemed intent on taking everything left of Galen Erso… They made it easy to maintain a straight face in the wake of flustered red that overtook Krennic, his wrath and embarrassment painting him a rather ruddy shade. He fled rapidly, cape billowing ridiculously behind him, but then again, his former friend had always had a flair for the dramatic…

He slowly lowered his head, gingerly removing the linen pressed to the side of his face to stop the bleeding, and rubbed in gentle circles to let some of the dried flecks flitter to the floor. Something cold touched the cut, shallow and curving along his temple, and he twitched when the fingers traced the groove it had left. “You’ll be aboard the Destroyer by tomorrow evening.” Galen never once raised his head, the clack of boots as the Grand Moff exited a steady counterpoint to the drumming seconds, and throb of his heart.


	4. Weakness (Tarkin/Galen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite one, for the sheer fact that Tarkin is at least something of an empathic, emotionless clod. If that makes any sense... Because ONLY this man could present such an oxymoron, and it still be perfectly reasonable in every fashion to ever exist.
> 
> On with the show!

“ _Galen_.”

Quiet. So much gentler than Galen had ever thought possible, though not soft, and perhaps even gentle was a stretch. However, compared to how he usually was, there were simply no other words to describe the one – a name, his own – that slipped from Tarkin’s lips. The older man was not one for messy things, especially the raw, unfiltered lapse that emotions brought, but… There was something within the whisper that he allowed. Galen wasn’t sure what one would call it...

Not even many years ago, fresh faced and bright eyed, straight from the gates of the academy, and bursting with faith in the cause he served… Had anyone spoken his name like the Grand Moff did. It seemed as if the man had learned to condense entire languages into a few syllables, his mastery obvious in the sonnets he veiled in every clever curve of his drawl.

He raised his head, the old fear returning, the one that had taken root when he’d first met Governor Wilhuff Tarkin, and found that the other was not looking at him. He considered it a mercy. His body was turned toward Galen, but his face and the cut of his glacial eyes remained out the window. Out over the endless abyss, and into the maw of a swirling golden cloud, amidst a cluster of stars. He was gripped by a vision he had as a teen, sailing across the night, vaster than any ocean, and he felt as if he could reach out – snap the cosmos between his fingers. What wonders could he birth into existence? He’d been obsessed, even then, with the idea of creation. The irony was not lost on him… Boys dreamed of making, crafting with delicate fingers all the mechanisms to start a universe, of being gods in a domain that would heed their call. But men knew the truth, embraced with bloody palms, and fragmented vows, the wreckage of a broken kingdom.

His feet moved of their own accord, dragging across the plush rug, and onto the unrelenting durasteel. With no thought, he burrowed his face against the Grand Moff’s stiff collar, arms wrapping under the other’s own, to bring them flush with the use of his slim waist. He closed his eyes, soaking in the scent that would offer him temporary reprieve: Cotton to blot out the thrum of the ship, the droning buzz of laser and creak of Storm Trooper boots, and the ever-looming monstrosity – never far from the Governor’s view – that spun slow, in mockery of a true moon. Then there was the lavender, natural and true, to dispel the lines he saw every time he closed his eyes. Parallel and perpendicular, crossed beams, and the warped curve of the Death Star factored in at every opportunity. It would be easier if Krennic didn’t desire aesthetic as badly as he did, substituting appearance for practicality.

Wilhuff remained stationary, grounded and real, and Galen took the opportunity to burrow as close as physically possible without throwing the other off balance… Not that he believed he could. Tarkin was still as stoic and old as a castle, bound by stone and will, and every drop of blood and sweat only seemed to add to its power. The scars that crisscrossed its masonry were a testament, a warning, and an omen all in one, foretelling of the ages that it would outlast. He knew the strength of each of his thin fingers as well, the fragility of his arms a lie that the Engineer never truly was able to fathom. In all his years, even if he were given millennia upon millennia, he knew he could never create something half as elegantly fashioned, as the man in his somber embrace.

Slowly, almost as if it were against his will, some of the tension bled from Tarkin’s demeanor. He didn’t really relax, but his shoulders loosened, and Galen felt his head move, till his jaw grazed some of his more untamed bangs. He really could do nothing with them, no matter how much he brushed them, or how many strange, parting strokes the other man blessed them with. Galen swore he could feel his ribs through the layers of his grey uniform, though he knew this too was a lie, and instead realized the intimacy of their breaths… He could feel Tarkin’s rather intensely, brushing his brow with the faintest of caresses, and the space their chests traded in equal time – exhale for inhale, inhaling when the other exhaled. His boots grazed Wilhuff’s, practically stepping over the older man’s feet, their knees touching in and out. They were wound, he realized, in some perverse semblance of lovers… If a little uninterested on one end.

Galen’s knuckles twisted, wrinkling the back of Tarkin’s uniform as he sought purchase, opening his eyes to gaze out at the dust of stars in the distance. It was softer than he thought it would be, despite the simplicity of it, and the older man’s body generated just as much heat as he remembered. They remained motionless for some time, breath and comfort traded in ways that the Engineer never would have imagined having ever again. He caught himself falling asleep against the other, and while standing no less. An impressive feat to be sure, but the longer he lingered, the closer the Death Star twisted into view.

Galen turned his head, lowering his brow to burrow his gaze into the Tarkin’s pointed collar, a bone he could easily feel through the thick cloth. He wanted to hide, wondered if Wilhuff would allow him to wallow in the sharp cage of his ribs, and he inwardly promised that he’d not take much room if allowed. Instead, after another long moment, he felt the icy shadow of the Death Star eclipse them. Fingers clasped his chin, gently, but offered no reprieve as they steered his face up to meet the Grand Moff’s fathomless azure depths. They were made glassy by the starlight, reflecting from beyond the false moon’s surface, the darkness offering a frightening new visage, but Galen was suddenly too tired to fear the thing before him. He’d already sold his soul anyway…

“You’ll join me for dinner this evening, do not be late, _Erso_.”


	5. Brink (Tarkin/Galen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Galen, you could do so much better...

“I’m sorry.”

Halfway through dinner, which he confessed didn’t taste as much of ash as he’d hoped, and a glass of an impressive red vintage he knew Krennic would be jealous of… It slipped. Half gasped, it faded into a murmur by the end, and he felt the beginnings of shame burn his face, within the seconds it took him to realize it had left his mouth.

Tarkin had been about to take a drink from his own glass, lips poised at the edge of the crystal, and he slowly lowered it to rest on the crisp tablecloth before him. Where most people would leave behind a foggy impression of their lips, there was none to be found upon the Grand Moff’s. It appeared clean, as if he had not been taking quiet, reserved sips from it the entire evening.

“Unless you have secretly been giving information to the Rebellion,” Wilhuff remarked with distaste, the curl of disgust barely restrained from his voice, as if he had found something sickening underneath his boot. “I see no discernable reason for you to warrant me with an apology.”

“I – “He wasn’t sure how to phrase it, not wishing to unintentionally injure the other man’s pride… Not that he believed he could do that either. Galen knew himself to be intelligent as far as most men went, his entire career, and the current state of his life reflected this… However, unlike the man across from him, separated only by perhaps two feet of wood and cloth and flame, he was still so timid in the ways of actual human interaction. Lyra had called it endearing. Now, he only saw it as a hinderance, to his survival, and the Empire he was trying to quite literally topple.

Tarkin was equally intelligent, Galen believed, actually more so, if one combined his experience and expertise. Which meant he was not daft, and had quickly surmised the meaning behind his apology. He could see it in the flickering of the candlelight, the strange incandescent weave of light and shadow lending some sort of shield to Wilhuff, one that Galen – for all his architectural knowledge and expertise – would never be able to replicate to be even half as effective. “I want to apologize… for all those years ago. When I – “

“Left.” A trace of resuscitated emotion, bitter like the lemon he’d thoughtlessly stuck to his tongue as a boy, the nectar scoring his throat like an open wound, till he spluttered and retched. It’d been brought to the surface by his one misstep, and the Engineer swallowed hard. Tarkin’s hands rested, folded in his lap, his composure relaxed, as was his face… But his eyes were a maelstrom of ice and pitiless, cruel wind, lashing open wounds that Galen had been content to forget, deeper and older than Lyra.

“Yes.” Galen agreed in a hoarse whisper, finding his voice after a long, tense silence.

“I think,” words breathed out between sharp canines, a whispered mercy from the wolf, fed to the sheep before he took it back to his den, “it best you reserve such sentiments for you wife.” Her ghost, now distant and vigilant by his bedside, stroking the side of his face, and tracing the throb of his pulse. Galen sucked in a ragged breath, fingers suddenly shaking, from fear and hate and a sudden rage that he attributed more to Krennic than himself. But it was subdued, swallowed back, and forced to rest – spitefully, with no small amount of struggle – underneath his lungs. It only made it harder to breathe. His palms felt sweaty and cold.

“She came after.” He forced the words out, a truth he hadn’t wanted to forgive himself for. His eyes darted up, taking in the other’s still composed visage, but noted that one thin eyebrow had risen in mock surprise. Or perhaps that was all the shock Tarkin could muster, his frigid stare foretelling nothing, and Galen wondered if his confession was not something the Grand Moff had already surmised. He lowered his gaze, the instinctive need to flee from the room, to be done with the false pretenses of –

Slowly, Tarkin rose, and he had half a fleeting hope that the other would dismiss him. Instead, the older man rounded the table, and deftly reached to comb back a few grey locks, that had tried to overtake one of his eyes. He’d never seen the other man’s look quite so hollow, the caverns made by his cheeks and jaw darker than the deepest space.

“Come to bed.”


	6. Fall (Tarkin/Galen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's part 1 of the nastiness special that is Galen x Tarkin.

His wrists chaffed, the well of blood daring to be brought to the surface underneath his own belt, which dug and twisted up into his fingers. He gasped through clenched teeth, chest heaving against the blinding burn that permeated every inch of him. Tarkin had been meticulous, no excited fumbling of two lovers long since separated, but instead had opted for reserved passion, meant to drive him to the brink of madness.

His fingers had been quick and decisive, removing Galen’s uniform with deft twists, tugs, and rips here or there. He’d been rather thoughtful, taking away only the parts that weren’t necessary for him to reach his own rooms later, but still with the impatience of desire simmering underneath. Tarkin had bound him, carefully, with knotwork that Galen had not thought possible with the limited leather, but the Grand Moff was nothing if not resourceful. He spun it about his wrists, binding him with the strip that seemed endless between his lean hands.

Tarkin’s belt had been used to secure one of his legs, bending it at the knee, and made his heel press against his buttocks. Once content with his creation, Wilhuff had started at his work. His hands soothed down strained muscles, bringing the throb of relief to the tendons that wove through every inch of him. He bit sharply and nipped almost pleasantly at his neck and shoulders, then down his chest, where his tongue joined to soothe, and lips to tease. His fingers, like a pianist, played him well, drawing moans and gasps from his bruised lips. He possessed the dexterity of a surgeon, mapping the sensitive areas of his body with careful twists and strokes.

Wilhuff left nothing untouched – following the weave of his skin, puckered by a few scars, and marked by freckles and moles, that were followed as well as any star chart. His limbs received the same treatment, massaged with hands and teeth and tongue, chest heaving and breaking open when Tarkin started on his peaked nipples and followed the lines down to the crests of his hips. He ignored where he burned, jutting thick and proud, leaking in lewd twitches, to continue learning him to the balls of his heels.

Galen huffed and moaned, breath wafting before his face, and shivered when the ventilation system rattled to life. “W – Wil – “Fingers stroked along the outsides of his thighs, drawing the bound one up to expose him. Tarkin regarded what lay before him with half lidded eyes, and Galen almost felt the need to shy away… He wasn’t a young man anymore, certainly not as perhaps ‘handsome’ as he might have been. He’d thought he always looked strange, brow too thick, nose too long, cheeks smoother than they should be.

“Let me…” He licked his lips, those icy depths flickering to meet his downy grey, and he swallowed back the sudden tremor of fear that stroked the heat in his belly. “Let me touch you.” He wanted to reach out, feel every subtle shift of Tarkin’s lithe frame, even if he had to do it through the other’s uniform. Because Wilhuff never stripped, only opening his jacket, and perhaps undoing a few buttons to the white undershirt underneath. That was fine, Galen was alright with that, but he still wanted –

“No.”

It was only after the Grand Moff finally touched him, sensitive and wanting, fingered him through one release, sucked him through the next, and thrust in for the third… That he realized he was being punished. As his toes curled, hips and thighs shaking against the bed, and he let out half bitten off pleas for mercy. Desperation heaved into his lungs, ecstasy drowned in agony, exhaled out against Wilhuff’s sweat laced hair.

For disappearing. For disrespecting the Empire. For forgetting who he was. For loving and marrying a woman, having a daughter under the pretense he might one day leave behind all that had inspired him to begin with.

There were other, crueler things underneath, ones he could see in Tarkin’s eyes, and would try to blissfully forget later… For making him wonder, for making him worry, for making him realize how much he meant to him, and how much he didn’t want him to be worth anything. Now, now Galen sobbed through a dry orgasm, as Wilhuff rutted into him with a softened cock, punishing him even at the expense of his own agony.

“Wil – Wil please,” he felt the salty burn of tears, new and unwelcome for the emotions they brought from his cracking throat. “Wil, Wil…” Airy and desperate, frantic for him to see what he could not say underneath, and the older man paused in his torture to gaze down at him for a few blessed seconds.

“Galen.”

He blinked, the world turning into a blur, but he could still see the crest of the icy peaks in Tarkin’s eyes.

He knew. He understood.

And that was enough.


	7. Cocoon (Tarkin/Galen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krennic being a little shit, and Wilhuff offers... respite.

Wilhuff was a place to hide. Galen realized this little fact when Krennic came to stay for three weeks aboard Sentinel Base, talking about new schematics, upgrades to be put into the works, and the extra year and a half it would take to make the project worthwhile. He could practically feel the wrath roiling off the older man in waves, the way his orbs narrowed, slow and calculated.

Galen watched Orson sneer at Tarkin, the other’s posture betraying nothing, and that just ruffled the Director’s feathers further. He recalled a time in the Academy when the other cadets made fun of his former friend, the title ‘Lord Peacockrennic’, being spoken in hushed whispers whenever he’d walked by. He’d never approved, been content to give the others a knowing, chastising look for their childish name calling. Being the top of the class, a bit older than the others, and known for his calm demeanor, this method had always worked wonders. Of course, that also lead to everyone calling him ‘Dadalen’, it sounded like a terrible name for a band… He just managed to reign in a snort.

His emotions weren’t as lost anymore, among the haze of fatigue and pain and guilt, they were fading. His stubbornness against time for trying to heal his wounds was disappearing, because he didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore… Or the undeserved comfort of Tarkin’s lips against his cheek and brow.

When the Grand Moff blessed him with affection, it was neither timid nor delayed, but arrived only exactly when he needed, and both had the opportunity. It never interfered with their work, nor encroached upon their solitude. However, one day, when Krennic was feeling particularly spiteful, he found the quickest way to knock the ship filtered air from his lungs. “You’re unusually timid today Galen, though I can’t say I’m surprised, it’s been… what? Six years since Lyra died? My, it’s been a long time for you, I can’t imagine going that long without having someone to talk to!” His words cut glass, easily embedding their shards into the tender muscles between his ribs, and threading to his heart.

“Tell you what, if you ever feel like having a heart to heart, you can come by my quarters… privately, of course.” It took all of his willpower not to grab the nearby pen, and jam it into the other’s throat, but Galen knew he’d probably survive… Orson was slippery enough. And where would he end up? In the brig. That was the last place he wanted to be, a confined space where the Director would have free reign, but… Tarkin would never allow that. He also wouldn’t allow him to stab a ‘valuable asset’ to the Empire either though, so, it was just a matter of choosing his punishment.

Thankfully, his shredded patience won out, and he smiled at the other, slow and sly. “Of course, old friend, thank you for the invitation.” Formal and altogether **un** friendly, his accent was barely veiled by the cold malice that dripped just underneath. Krennic returned the gesture, equally forced and cruel.

As soon as his shift ended, he made his way through the halls of Sentinel, and rapidly approached the board room. “I have a report for the Grand Moff,” he stated, firm and aloof, “it’s urgent.” The Storm Trooper marched inside, returning less than a moment later, trailing behind the spindly older man. “This way, sir,” he gestured, leading him to a secluded space where there were no cameras. Galen inhaled, shaky and wet, trying to stop the wave of acid that roiled in his gut. “I – “He was not broken. He was not. Krennic could not so easily dismantle everything that he had tried to work for… The fall of the Empire, the failure of the Death Star. All he had to do was… But the longer he stayed, the less his footing remained sure, teetering on the edge of betrayer – not to the Rebellion, but Lyra and his sweet, Jyn. His Stardust.

He knew what was to blame, the weakness that he allowed himself, the crutch that he didn’t _need_ , but wanted so that he could limp on till the bitter end. The one that slammed him against the bulkhead, one arm braced above his head, and the other gripping his bicep in a vice. Galen gasped, wide, misty irises trying to make sense of the red and shadow and the freezing depths of Tarkin’s gaze. He was enveloped in cotton and lavender, blotting out all other senses, and soothing the tatters they were left in.

It was easy to think the Grand Moff had no musk, to believe what they said, about him being a strange amalgam of droid and man, that the Emperor had fashioned for serving his regime to its fullest. Galen knew it not to be true, had smelt the burning spice of a man that had survived The Carrion that Eriadu boasted, and brought victory during the Clone Wars. Only now though, when they were so close he could taste his breath, and feel the curve of his chest against his own.

“Galen.” Again, a command shrouded in his name, reminding him, and yet… relenting. He sagged against Tarkin, letting out the first rasping, pained sobs he’d withheld since Krennic had spat nothing short of venom at him. Wilhuff remained, steady and strong, drawing the toxin from him by allowing the agony to seep from him. He did this only behind closed doors, the sudden openness of their meeting bringing danger closer than the Grand Moff would ever allow, but emotions were… messy. Grief most of all.

Galen raised his head, lips colliding with the swell of Tarkin’s jaw, down the strained tendons of his neck, and finally he burrowed his mouth against Wilhuff’s collar. He tasted good, not like his scent, but of clean skin and his bitter musk, easier to taste than smell. Galen had to keep his nails from biting in, wrinkling and damaging the uniform too much for discretion’s sake, and simply contented himself with nuzzling and straining to somehow become closer. Wilhuff allowed it, retuning the gesture in his own way, by nestling his face against the Engineer’s shoulder, but made no move to embrace him… an intimacy too far, this out in the open.

They stayed that way, the thrum of the ship marking the passage of time, and he knew that every pulse under their feet was another moment passing by. Tarkin’s heart was better still, for it was steady and hotter under the layers of his uniform, and not as unfeeling as the dull, crimson glow that half exposed and hid them amongst its shadows.

“Meet me later, tonight.” Wilhuff purred against his ear, placing a parting caress to his hairline… But with his lips this time, thin and cool against his lashes as he looked up at the older man. “Don’t ever interrupt Imperial matters again, Erso.” He disentangled himself expertly, no evidence of their fumbled, half embrace in the hallway.

Galen was smiling on his way back to his room. ‘All bark and no bite’, isn’t that what they said?


	8. Artist (Tarkin/Galen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen and Tarkin have a moment of strange... serenity? Is that a word to even describe them in their current setting? Maybe they should take a vacation... to The Carrion, because that place has to be at least ten times safer than a battle station with Krennic on board.

Tarkin’s chambers were just as simple and unassuming as his uniform, sleek and full of grey, nothing paltry or that didn’t have some form of purpose. The only exception that added any hint of color or variety, were the assortment of leather and clothbound tomes that abounded the walls of his bedroom, and the few that rested upon the Caf table in his drawing room.

Galen was even privileged enough to sometimes see them in disorder, stacked beside the Grand Moff’s bedside in rows of towers, whose structural integrity was questionable at best. He’d perused them a few times, noting the number of classics, from the sonnets and plays of a man made famous by the renaissance of his world, mixed in among the tactical geniuses and philosophies of some of the greatest minds this side of the galaxy. He’d been shocked to notice the engineering journals as well, drawn charts and schematics of old TIE fighters, and he was impressed with the hand that had sketched them.

Tarkin admitted that he’d done them, brushing away the compliment that Galen paid him as if he were water, and the Engineer’s words were oil. He smiled, quietly to himself, and continued pouring over them. He noted that some of the recommended improvements had been adapted to their current fliers, impressed by the other’s thoughtful prowess, executing his own ideas… Rather than conceiving a concept, then telling someone to come up with the logistics of it.

“My family never approved,” Wilhuff informed him, voice flat and gravelly, “of my desire to invest time into the Scientific and Technical studies on Coruscant.”

“So why did you?” He’d discarded his jacket, rather unceremoniously and unprofessionally (as if anything in their relationship was professional) on the floor, abandoning decorum to lounge upon one of the shockingly plush sofa that occupied Tarkin’s office. His murmured question barely stirred the air, desperate as he was to preserve the relaxed tone of the room. His gaze shifted from Tarkin’s TIE plans, rising to watch the older man who sat behind the oaken desk. His deep, cool depths darted over the data pad in his hand, as he casually sipped at the steaming cup of tea he cradled between his pale, nimble fingers. He hated Caf, preferring to ‘keep his state of mind’, and maintain his sleep schedule. The man had somehow perfected getting his necessary two and a half hours of needed REM sleep in four. Galen rather envied him.

His face was highlighted faintly in the strange glow, his cheeks no longer pits, but made healthier by the faint touch of irritation. Galen felt himself smile, slow and indulgent. Tarkin looked strangely human when he showed even the slightest hints of emotion, especially when he folded his arm under the other, and his knuckles worried at his lower lip. His concentration, from the subtlest crease in the center of his brow, to the purse of his pale lips, made him handsome in a way that the Engineer never felt he could be.

“Several reasons,” he groused in response, the message on the pad obviously souring his mood, but equally loosening his tongue. “To save time and energy, instead of waiting on some fool to execute what I knew I was more than capable of on my own.” Practical, of course. Galen didn’t know what else he expected… The older man sighed, closing his eyes to knead at the place between them, and placed the data pad onto the table with no small amount of ire. He rolled his angular jaw, rising swiftly from his chair, and strode across the room in a few measured strides. His eyes were darker, glinting in the stars beyond, the only source of light in the suite. “Furthermore, as you are no doubt already aware…” He tore the plans from his grasp, indifferent as they partially shredded, and Galen’s brow furrowed at the unnecessary tears. “I don’t share what is mine.”

Tarkin’s lips took his own, dry and yet smooth. They were longer than Galen’s own, but his were fatter, both above and below. They were lopsided too, on the right side, the top one slanting slightly higher than it should. Lyra said he looked unique. He thought he looked strange, and not in a good way. One hand slid low, underneath him to find purchase on the couch, and made it easier for Tarkin to lower himself.

Galen spread his legs willingly, closing his eyes when teeth sunk lazily into his lower lip, and sighed when the other’s slim hips fit into the cradle his thighs offered. Noses scrapped, both too long, but neither bothered as their mouths slid. Out of tune – too fast, he nearly whined, but Tarkin was swift to fix the error. Their lips had grown wetter, warmer, and he heard his stubble scrape the other’s jaw and cheeks as he swooped in to carry him higher.

Galen felt the hare in the hawk’s grasp, writhing in his talons, knowing his fate was futile, but unable to deny the ecstasy of air so clean it burned, straight from his lungs to his face and eyes and the tips of his ears. He could hear his pulse, a quiet throb that made his neck strain, and eyes sprinkle with color. His toes curled, knees bending to clasp Tarkin’s hips, and pull him closer. Wilhuff grunted, forced to bring his weight down upon him, and he released a sharp exhale as he fell atop him. His gasp tasted of the Governor, gulping the air from the other’s lungs, feeding them into his own.

His eyes fluttered open, focusing to take in the rumpled collar and receded curls of ash along the Grand Moff’s head. The older man was flushed, arousal warring with barren hunger in his orbs, and his tongue darted out, serpent like and precise, to taste Galen upon his lips. His hands rose, suddenly aware of his own freedom, and clasped the side of his face. His hair wasn’t course, more like silk and fluff, and his thumbs fit perfectly into the hollows of his cheeks. Galen pulled the skin, curious, stretching it across the peak of bone that thrust from the surface of flesh. There wasn’t much give, foretelling of the fineness of his aging, like a bottle of Coruscant chardonnay. Krennic would kill him for that analogy.

Tarkin huffed, leaning forward to cushion another, much smaller impact. Galen blinked, an amused chuckle worming from his throat. The older man turned his head, quite content it seemed to burrow against his chest, and let his body relax atop the Engineer’s.

“Your shift starts in two hours, _Director_ Erso,” he sighed, closing his cutting blue eyes, and Galen’s heart leapt into his throat.

“ _What_?”

“You have been, and always will be, more befitting of the title than that fool, Krennic. Now rest.” He stared at the other man, torn between shock and – though he tried to crush it before he actually had time to name it – the raw, warming flush of… pride. Instead, he settled back, shimmying with the use of his elbows to find a more comfortable position, but never once dislodged Tarkin in any way. He leaned back, head resting on a pillow, both arms folded over the shoulders of the man who rested atop him, fingers worrying the softer fabric along his back. His eyes drifted shut, unable to deny the fear that clenched his chest. Was he falling apart? What was he thinking, doing?! What of his little Stardust? The future only he could guarantee her and all the other innocents of the universe?

Such thoughts plagued him, but Tarkin was warm and welcome, embracing him with his whole body, though his arms remained lax. One dangled over the side of the couch, knuckles grazing the cold floor below, but he didn’t seem the least bit disturbed over it. Galen fell asleep, his dreams more comfortable than they had any right to be, but he knew he should be grateful. For the waking world was filled with the cruel shift of reality, jarring him back to responsibilities and plots he never wanted to be a part of.

But Tarkin was also there, cool and calm, collecting his pieces to make him whole again. That wasn’t fair, he’d never asked him for that… But who decided to walk back in? Wilhuff wasn’t Orson, he would never _force_ him into such a relationship…

He was late for his shift.


	9. Respite (Tarkin/Galen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen's a little ragged. Tarkin provides the necessary reprieve.

“I’m tired.” There was no breeze in space. No sound. It was devoid of all the pleasures of surface life, which were always so close, and yet thousands of miles away. Galen didn’t know what else to say, letting the truth tumble forth, rough and cold from his cracked lips. He hadn’t seen Tarkin in the last four days, practically forced to join Krennic at the hip, and the workload the other stressed had left great, darkened chasms under his eyes.

The Grand Moff’s gaze narrowed at the sight of them, long, limber fingers tracing the outline of one, and down his cheek. Galen leaned into the contact, a warm sigh escaping his blood laden lips. He’d bitten off too much earlier, the iron still bitter on the tip of his tongue, and he couldn’t suppress the shudder when Tarkin pressed one dull nail into the tender flesh. It was a nervous habit, one he’d picked up during his Academy days, but Lyra had broken him of it with gentle kisses. He didn’t want her to taste his blood. As if it would taint her, mar her… But he couldn’t hide from the lie anymore.

He just didn’t want to be reminded.

Of the pristine ivory walls, the equations piled one too many too high, the aspirations, and dreams he had of creating an entire planet. “Just think of it,” he remembered the words that had left his lips with such reverence, “of the possibilities! People wouldn’t have to suffer anymore, on Tatooine, or Mustafar, or Hoth! Entire civilizations, animals, everything! It can all be moved, preserved aboard crafts like moons and planets!” The potential for creation was limitless, as were his experiments, his designs. Everyone believed he might be mad – a planet sized station? The necessary funds, the time, the manpower, would it even be worth it in the end? But his argument was always that one day, they’d be able to build bigger, faster, and with less – as with anything, all it took was practice.

He’d never been overly ambitious as to share those thoughts with anyone who didn’t ask, deciding not to bore them with is incessant droning about the possibilities, and in time people thought he was less eccentric and more… idealistic.

That changed when Krennic appeared, bright eyed and demanding information, boasting about having the same idea. Galen thought him endearing, actually, the way he flounced in with all the entitlement of an ivy league noble, but the accent of an Outer Rim farm boy. If a little rude. And abrasive. So what if their hands brushed one too many times during late night studies? If Krennic’s gaze would sometimes dart to his lips, before looking away and licking his own? What if he stammered out a terrible flirt once or twice, then laughed at the look on Galen’s face, and pretended it was all a big joke?

But all good things must come to an end, he soon realized, because Weapons Engineer was a far more lucrative career. When the pain, the guilt, the naked shame caught him in the night, it sunk in with all the gentleness of a Norlaxion’s trap – jagged teeth cutting through his ankles, sinking into his chest, and around his neck, tightening with every step he took, till all he could do was writhe in agony.

He left everything behind in the dead of night, stealing away like a thief with something to hide. It wasn’t until that moment, as he stared into the pensive, sparking fury of icy flame before him, that he realized that he had stolen. Not the greatest scientific mind the Empire had to offer, the Death Star, or anything so physically trivial… It was the quiet thunder under his palm, hot and throbbing, the same as any living man had.

When had he embraced him?

He didn’t know. All he did, was that his face was in the Grand Moff’s neck, nose pressed into his collar, inhaling the scent that never ceased to calm him, and his hands were against into his back, fingers following the curve and angular divide of his shoulder blades. Tarkin replied in kind, as he always did, with a kiss from his sharp lips to his dusty hair. “Go, lie down.” He murmured after a few short moments, in which Galen counted the pulse from the strong drum under his palm – seventy-five. Always in perfect tune. He bet he could keep counting, and know exactly how many times Tarkin’s heart had beat. “I’ll join you within the hour.”


	10. Caged (Tarkin/Galen Wing!AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin/Galen with wings.

They were a deep, earthen shade all throughout, from the rising crest of the coverts, and along the smooth edges of his primaries. The feathers were not soft like his own, but stiff and flat, retaining their shape even under heavy downpour. Underneath, in between the folds of skin and bone, on either side of his spine, was the place to find the downy fluff of a hatchling.

At their edges, and blurred heavily into his secondaries, were undeniable layers of gold and silver. Galen reasoned that, when he was younger, it was probably just the former and none of the latter. But he couldn’t imagine it no matter how hard he tried, for to take away any part of Tarkin, was like denying a law of the universe, and as a man of science, he simply couldn’t do that. Occasionally, he could hide from that part of himself, mulling over the image of the older man with chestnut instead of ash, and the full glory of his wings stretched up like the ancient Aether of old…

It never lasted long, whisked away when he blinked his eyes, and all that was left was a curl of smoke, to remind him of the majesty that lay before him. So why imagine anything else? He traced one of the misty edges, noting the way the feather gave, and bent just so slightly under his touch. Most suffered some form of deterioration in their latter years, their barbs growing weaker, and their shafts bending at the slightest provocation. Tarkin’s were as strong as a man half his age, retaining their shape and color for the most part, and… well, Galen hadn’t seen him in the air recently, but he did remember years ago hearing what an amazing acrobat the Grand Moff was in the air.

It didn’t surprise him really, considering the other man excelled at anything he put his mind to.

Galen’s own feathers were soft, somewhat coarse along the secondaries, but had a certain… _fluff_ along the primaries and coverts and underneath. They were a lighter brown than his hair, dusty like sand, and a shade of whitened beige along the underside. The longer feathers boasted a sort of reddish hue, but he ultimately believed that made them look a lot like the cliffs of red clay on Tatooine. By now though, the smaller ones had begun to grey, following the same process his hair had completely succumbed to. Sometimes, he truly wondered what Tarkin’s fascination with them was…

Especially since he couldn’t fly anymore. That still… A part of him was glad he couldn’t fly anymore, no longer reminded of the nightly dances he had with Lyra, but they were a species of avian men. It did not do well to be grounded, forced into a cage from which there was no escape, and now he… He wanted nothing more than to have such memories with Tarkin. The Grand Moff wasn’t blind either, he could see the twitch of his face every time he told him he was entering the communal garden, a large deck inside the Destroyer, built several miles long and tall to facilitate flight. Such things assisted in calming the mind, in letting go, and Galen still dreamt of falling… Then the wind that would effortlessly catch and lift him, letting him swirl towards the sun and catch the stars if he chose. For even with his smaller, weaker wings, he could touch the lower clouds, and bask in the dash of a summer’s breeze.

Now all he dreamt of was the fall. In fact, they were nightmares – the crash, the break, and sob. But it wasn’t the ground. It was durasteel, trapped in a box of grey and cold and shadow, clawing at the walls as the bolts through his wings tore the sky down, and stole the glow of the moon. Black gloves had pulled them free, tearing muscle, and snapping fragile bone. He’d wanted to scream, to lash out, but Lyra and his Stardust had left him weak. The grief had taken the rest of him, leaving his body slumped and numb across the floor, wallowing in dried blood and salt. Krennic’s leather gloves pet and prodded, his whispered words no more a comfort than the shot that had ripped his wife’s life away, and it was he that had done it…

Did he think the agony would wipe the memory away?

He’d told lies Galen knew too well, about how it wasn’t his fault, that he was sorry this had happened, and that he’d punish those responsible. Every time he touched him it made him sick. Consciousness was a fleeting burden that flittered away, faster than his freedom had. His wings ached, a fresh, jarring wave of anguish pulsing through them every time Orson touched them.

His feigned fury was nothing compared to the Grand Moff’s true wrath.

When he had arrived, less than a week after Galen had been ‘released’, he could hear Krennic supplying careful excuses and half explanations down the hallway. When Tarkin had seen him, however, all of that fell away. His gaze had darted over the Engineer, taking in every apparent abnormality – such as how his uniform hung off his frame, the darkened crescents under his eyes, and the stretch of bandage and stake across his wings, an intricate spider’s web of the best the facility had to offer in terms of medical care.

Tarkin’s toneless words broke the long, heavy silence: “Lieutenant Engineer Erso will be coming aboard Sentinel Base, to serve the remainder of his tenure under me.” Krennic’s wings had instantly flared, feathers sharpening to daggers as they spread, knocking over several nearby tables. Galen had at one time thought them beautiful – they were smooth and agile, like a predator’s, but maintained a softness found in the simpler species. The colors of black and white mixed into a lush grey, toned into a deep blue along their lower halves.

“What?! You can – “the ‘can’t’ was lost, his blunder remedied with fragmented reasons: “he’s needed here, where he can work without interference, and can be monitored closely.”

 “Considering the recent lapse in protocol that lead to this debacle to begin with,” Tarkin’s words were smooth, dipped bitterly in a poison that made Galen swallow, “it has no longer become a question of what is best for your fool’s errand, _Director_ Krennic.” His wings remained as they always did: unruffled, and reposed on either side of him, opposing the quivering of Orson’s own behind him.

“You can’t just – “Krennic was spitting, hissing like a viper, not screeching as a true falcon would, his earlier attempt forgotten in the face of his childish petulance.

It was the first time in decades that Galen had seen Tarkin’s wings expand to their full height.

They eclipsed Orson, his wings becoming nothing more than shadows, to the earth and gold that Tarkin wielded. Wide and long, they had twitched and flared in the flash of an instant as he rounded on the other man, barely a whisper to disrupt the stagnant air, and never once did his feathers so much as topple a data pad to the floor. Galen was as awestruck as he had been when he’d first seen them, noting the additions of a few scars, barely obscured by the lay of thick, heavy quills. It seemed Krennic was as well, for his lips moved with no noise, his sky orbs lost in the blaze of the sun crowned mountain before him. Wilhuff’s voice rumbled like thunder: “Are you truly so foolish as to believe, Director Krennic, that I owe you some form of explanation? A command needs no such fallacies. I suggest you remember that.”

And with that, he half turned, one wing sweeping gracefully across the floor, barring Orson from the sight of the hand the Grand Moff extended to him. “Come.” Galen rose, faster than he should have, shaking to his marrow, and followed the older man out.

Within the hour, he was cocooned in a warm wave of feathers, his own wings wrapped around Tarkin as they shuddered violently. Wilhuff brushed his hair back, the lank strands obeying his soothing fingers, but never once did he reach for Galen’s wings.

At first, the Engineer believed it was just a lapse, a momentary reassurance for the sake of sentiment. But the Grand Moff was not a sentimental man, and a week later he was collected, and held in the embrace of his predatory wings again. Then he started to think it was because Tarkin had surmised his injuries, refusing to touch in case he would injure him, but even after the bandages came off, he only stroked his hair with his fingers.

Was he disgusted by them? Did he think they were weak?

No… That couldn’t have been it. It took Galen – slow as he was in basic rituals – to realize that Tarkin was waiting for him to initiate such intimacy. It was only prudent, after all, when someone lost a mate, to be slow and allow them the time they needed to start such contact. Afterwards, he immediately sought out the Grand Moff, and ran his hands into his secondaries, tangling his fingers into the soft flesh and softer feathers at the juncture where they met his back. Wilhuff had exhaled slowly, leaning down to nuzzle his jaw against his temple, and allowed his fingers to skim the tallest crest of his coverts.

Galen watched him, sleeping on his stomach, curled under one of his massive Eagle’s wings. Blankets were never necessary with Tarkin, his body and feathers supplying all the heat they could ever need, and he idly traced the peak in one of his cheeks. Ice laden orbs opened slowly, glittering with snow in the starlight, and Galen smiled at him with his lopsided mouth.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” A warm gust in the gloom, like the ones he missed in spring.

“Galen.” Wilhuff’s lips curled, a drowsy, rasping chuckle rumbling from his sleep crusted throat. The Engineer thought it was one of the most beautiful sounds he’d ever heard. “You really must learn to sleep like a normal bird, my dear.” A slip of the tongue, one that came only in the wee hours, or when work had sapped away Tarkin’s remaining patience. Galen loved it every time.

“I’m sorry,” he didn’t mean it, not really, not when the older man regarded him with such open endearment, “we Nightingale’s really don’t know any better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin is a golden eagle, Krennic is a falcon, and Galen was obviously a nightingale. I know, I know, I'll get back to working on the main story now, but... This muse wouldn't let me GO, so, obviously, like any dutiful writer, I had to get it written down before it dragged me to an early grave. Also, I think this is the most fluff-ridden, affectionate thing I've done for them.
> 
> Sorry, no Vader in this one, gods', I don't even think he was mentioned. Whatever. Maybe if I continue this, I'll add him in. I'm thinking raven...


	11. Endangered (Tarkin/Galen)

Red, red, red – Sentinel Base was full of crimson lights, paying homage to the Empire in the most aesthetically ugly fashion, though they never glared half so bright, and screeched unless they were under attack. Galen knew the moment he heard the siren’s foul croon, echoing through every inch of the durasteel ship, his ears ringing, drowning out the thunderous roar of his blood in his ears.

 _Twenty, twenty-one_ … He counted in his head, trying to distract from the sudden dryness of his mouth, the thickness of his tongue. His chest seized, throat aching with the throb of his pulse, and the building pressure behind his eyes that made his head hurt.

 _Thirty-five, thirty-six_ … Galen moved fast, darting through the crowded haze of grey and military green, insignias and ranks mattering little in the wake of the Rebel boarding party, who left gifts in the form of blaster fire and black holes in the walls. Something reeked. It was the blood, he realized, nearly lost among the throbbing pulse of Sentinel Base’s lights, but it was quickly turning black as it dried across the walls and floor.

 _Forty-seven, forty-eight…_ He closed his eyes, steeling himself from the inevitable squish, as his boots traveled through rust and shit and piss. Men did that when they died. He kept his eyes dead ahead, searching, trying to conceal the panic the clenched his chest. He wanted to run, to turn over every body, and scour the corridors until he found him. Galen chanced a glance down when he shouldn’t have, the glazed stare of a Storm Trooper meeting his own through his half-blown helm. He looked young, his golden curls cascading down… barely obscuring the exposed shell of his skull, the slug shaped piece of his frontal lobe sticking out through his eye socket, and the fluid that rolled down his neck, into his mouth.

 _Sixty-two, sixty-three…_ Galen closed his eyes once more, inhaling to fight the wave of nausea that almost overcame him, and kept moving –

There!

He didn’t think, instinct taking hold of his buckling knees, and ran forward. Galen raised his shaking hands, palms slick with sweat, and carded them through sweat drenched silver hair. Wilhuff’s head lolled, icy eyes closed, and panted softly, his breaths visible in the cold air. He felt something, realizing it was the clench of the Grand Moff’s fingers upon his elbow, the other twisting in at his hip. The Engineer hissed through his teeth, taking in the bloodied, darkening bruises in the shapes of hands along the older man’s neck, the muscles straining and bulging beneath his skin. The light was doing something strange, turning every drop of sweat into a fiery spark, and the no doubt black and blue and purple marks, into a map of ugly constellations across the canvas of his pale throat.

Galen’s fingers were twitching, which made it hard to undo the buttons, so he tore at the uniform, letting them patter away, and roll in the filth at their feet. Galen’s gaze darted up, fast enough to catch the flicker of Tarkin’s eyes, and his breath shuddered when he saw the darkened blues… Like sapphires layered in dew, hard and wild, but glittering and unguarded.

“ _Galen_ …” It was a rasp, hollow and lost, but there was something there… a **desperation** that he’d never heard before. He would never, ever, not even if the galaxy were to collapse in upon itself, say that Wilhuff Tarkin sounded weak. He didn’t, even now, with his eyes glazed and unfocused, before they closed again, and his head lolled forward. Galen caught him, warm hands rising to catch the chilled sides of his face, thumbs fitting into the hollows of his cheeks, and feeling his jaw. Harsh, unrelenting, but layered in smooth, softened skin. He was cold, so cold, and Galen slid one hand into his icy hair, while the other reached to his back… cupping, feeling, seeking –

 _Eighty-nine, ninety…_ Softer, but no less sure, the hot throb of Tarkin’s heart reverberated out from his ribs, reaching to the pulse in his palm, assuring his far more fragile chambers of its continued drum. Galen’s brow furrowed, lids lowering, letting Wilhuff clutch with steadier hands than his own, to his waist and arm. He burrowed his face into his thinner, silvery locks, taking in the scent of cotton and lavender, along with his musk. It was stronger now, heightened by the spice of his sweat, and the tang of blood.

 _One-hundred, one-hundred-one…_ Wilhuff shuddered against him, nuzzling his face into his chest, and Galen felt a smile itching at the corners of his lips. He murmured, soft words, sweet ones, that he should have said long before, but could never bring himself to. Only when the older man was in the clutch of sleep – the one beast that could bring him down – unaware of the world around him, but with starlight in his hair, filling the crease of his thin lips, and dancing along the divides between his knuckles.

 _One-hundred-twenty, one-hundred-twenty-one…_ Slowly, quietly, Wilhuff’s strong fingers pushed his arms away, freeing him from Galen’s embrace. The Engineer didn’t fight him, no matter how much he just wanted to wrap around him again, and stepped to the side. Galen folded his arms behind his back, fixing his gaze on a point on the opposite wall, but he kept Tarkin in his peripheral vision. The madness hadn’t stopped, men running with what they thought were good reasons, but they were all proven ignorant when the Grand Moff rose…

 _One-hundred-thirty, one-hundred-thirty-one…_ His legs didn’t shake, neither did his arms, or his voice. Like the first splintering crack of an avalanche, his rasp echoed forth with all the strength and malice of a blizzard: “down floor seven, sector nine, they’re here for the communications relay!” There was a flurry once more, except it was driven now, given purpose by the Governor of Eriadu, a man made to conquer the devouring, unforgiving Carrion.

 _One-hundred-fifty, one-hundred-fifty-one…_ No one knew how the Rebels had managed to penetrate their defenses, not at first, but Tarkin was nothing if not ruthless, solving the leak within three hours after the breech. The infiltrator was part of a visiting general’s entourage, having cut communications for ten months to insure the success of the ruse, and set up the building blocks for the mission. In the aftermath, after all the Rebels had been captured, they were fed to the freshly summoned Lord Vader… He revealed that the suicidal venture had been to capture Sentinel Base, and warp it behind the Rebellion’s lines, capturing all officers on board to use as prisoners of war.

The general who had allowed the breech was sent to Coruscant to await trial…

Later that evening, as he made his way to Tarkin’s chambers with a med-kit –

He started counting again.


	12. Bound (Tarkin/Galen Captured!TarkinAU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin is captured by the Rebellion. Galen pays him a visit in his cell.

Ice.

Galen had been trying to find the words to describe what was clearly before him – a man, though that was up for debate amongst much of the Senate, bound in black irons. They were simplistic, though heavy, large; wound up his arms, and around his legs. There was a collar too, an ugly mimicry of the ones usually found on the jackets of Imperial officers, clamped tight just under the sharp line of his jaw. He was on his knees, thighs stretched long through his trousers, leaning against his bindings in repose, too relaxed for a man facing agonizing torture. Though that did little to diminish the aura that roiled off him, vicious and colder than the blizzards of Hoth…

Ash curled high on his brow, a few strands laden with rust, and heavy along his scalp. There were dried rivulets the same shade, following and tracing every archaic line of his countenance, from the sharp ridges of his temples, down the long bridge of his nose, and into the creases along the corners of his mouth. The eerie, white light above, made veils of black hang down from his ridged shoulders, which were pulled back and taut. His bones caught the shadows, visible through the ripped edges of his white shirt, which hung in tatters off his right shoulder, and was barely held in place by his belt at the left side of his waist.

His ribs moved, slow and rigid, making waves and patterns of the white scars that crossed and puckered every inch of them. The map of old injuries was added to – from the long and irregular lay of ugly brown and bright purple, to the darker blue, and bright red – marking new routes and constellations. There were undeniable twists as well, along his chest and arms: of laser marks and blaster burns. They joined the other obvious signs of torture, in an intricate dance that wove itself as scripture across the pale parchment of his skin, which was wrapped around lean, strong muscles. They were unmoving, save for the inhales and exhales he took, which exposed the divides they caused in his stomach and chest. He could see them in the slender breadth of his bare arm as well, the ivory, brown stained cloth a banner, hanging from the twisted tendon along his bicep, curved and following into his arm to his bony wrist.

Bright azure stretched outwards, from his throat, down his abdomen, which rose and fell with equal measure every time, and fanned across what he could see of his arm. Thick and thin, a beautiful wind of liquid life stretched throughout his entire being, and Galen was suddenly gripped by the desire to reach out and trace every twist of the maze… To learn it better than the throb of his own heart – hot and pounding in his ears – to feel its thunder under his fingers, and the wild timbre of it on his tongue.

But it was his eyes that made him stop, made his breath hitch, and mouth dry. He could feel the quickening of his pulse, the vicious rush making his head hurt, and the adrenaline that roared through him had his fingers twitching.

He felt as if he were being hunted.

Even if it was Governor Tarkin bound to the floor and not him, restrained by feet and feet of winding black iron, and beaten till he was bloody. There was no denying the shiver down his spine, for those eyes had opened as soon as he walked in, as if he were prey that had stepped into the beast’s den, and not his cage. They were rimmed in darkness, a shroud that had tried to eclipse the icy depths, but had only ended up enslaved to them.

The Grand Moff was still, making no move other than to gaze into Galen’s earthy irises, and the Engineer swallowed the grit in his throat. He turned his gaze, to the two guards over his shoulder, searching for something to focus on, and motioned. “Leave us…” He murmured, raspier than he would have liked, and deeper in his chest, to disguise the quake of dread. They paused, looking at each other, but he could see the sweat trickling down both of their faces… They had none of the history he shared with the other man, none of the steel he’d developed over the years after being… close to him. He was amazed they’d lasted five minutes, let alone twenty.

Slowly, weakly, they nodded. After the guards had retreated, shuffling with rigid, quiet movements, as if they were afraid of startling the beast in the room… Galen breathed out softly. He turned, noting that Tarkin’s penetrating stare had never left him, and approached with caution one would usually reserve for a sleeping Gogmazios.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, watching the fat flakes of dust that wavered like snow around the glaciers, that continued to stalk him where their master could not. He reached back, withdrawing a small, silver prybar, with an inverted hook on the end. Galen set to work, trying his best to ignore the older man’s eyes, and the way his lids lowered to half mast, a feigned sense of ease… The wolf assuring the lamb that his teeth were not so sharp.

He smelled the same, he realized, hands faltering with the binds as the scent struck him. Clean and woolen, even now, with the burn of iron at the edge, and sour copper not far behind. Underneath, far subtler, but no duller… Was lavender. It was smooth, not sweet, but natural and lovely. It reminded him of home. He could smell his musk as well, stronger than he knew it usually was, but it was a spice he was familiar with, unique and pleasant. _Men aren’t supposed to smell so nice_ , Galen thought, _but he isn’t like other men_. One of the clasps was beginning to come loose between his dexterous fingers. _Or maybe you’re just strange for liking it so much_ …

Or maybe it was something he'd taken with him from The Carrion.

Some of the heavier binds clattered to the floor, echoing in the chamber, but Galen ignored them. The walls were soundproof. He knew, he’d designed them. The lengths around his legs dropped, ruffling his olive pants, but that was nothing –

Galen’s head rebounded against the steel floor, the ache of before heightened tenfold by the crack of thunder that followed, his tool clattering away, skidding well out of reach. His vision whirled, before the too bright white of the light, and the clawing darkness that entangled around them. His wrists felt as if they had been staked, the tips of his fingers burning, pounding from the iron clad vice that had wrapped around them. Galen would have hissed, had he had any air left in his lungs, instead he gasped so sharply he gagged.

When the world stopped shaking, his vision focused onto the wraith that had taken him prisoner. _How fitting_ , he surmised, _that he would be a creature of death_. Tarkin’s face had become edged by the light, his cheeks and jaw and sockets forming endless caverns, but his eyes remained… They always did. Galen’s gaze trailed down – from the wide, glowing frost – to the lithe edges of his lips, and his brow furrowed at an undeniable tear in the top one. They appeared dry, if the pale beams were anything to go by, cracked, but the gap exposed some of his teeth. It was accentuated by the snarl that was trying to twitch its way onto his face…

He could feel one of his legs as well, pressed between his own, bracketing one of his thighs, keeping him pinned to the floor. Galen sighed, relaxing as much as he were able, and raised his neck. Tarkin gave the subtlest jerk, something flickering amongst the ice, and slowly… The Engineer curved his chin back. The Governor’s eyes lulled, sharp, and yet made glassier by his action.

Tarkin moved, shoulders shifting, and knees sliding over the floor as he lowered himself. Galen could feel the itchy trickle of sweat down his brow, a shudder rattling his teeth, and he clenched them suddenly. That didn’t hide how he shivered. His dark, dew covered eyes fixed on a spot on the opposite wall. His chest hurt, heart pounding in his ears, throbbing along his neck. He gasped through his nose, numb hands tightening into fists, at the first graze of those cold lips against his pulse. They paused, briefly, and he could feel the… curiosity – no, intrigue – that roiled off the man atop him. Again, it happened, and once more, a faint stroke of skin and the scrape of sharp stubble. Galen heard him inhale, just as his nose brushed his chin, and he could intimately feel the flare of Tarkin’s nostrils against his jaw.

Galen felt the tension seeping from him, licking his dry lips, and a soft sigh shuddered from his lungs.

Sharp, stinging – _pain_. Galen stopped, throat burning, the strike faster than a cobra’s. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t writhe, couldn’t – couldn’t – Hot and sticky, gushing against his darkened skin. He almost thought it tickled. But it was collected, trapped in the greedy kiss of cold lips, warming the beast above him. Something punctured the gloom, his fragmented mind trying to piece it together, but all he could form was… An avalanche, the glide of silken snow as it tumbled, roiling to grow louder than thunder, but retaining a muted edge. Like the whisper of a ghost.

Galen blinked, wondering when he’d closed his eyes, panting softly. He could see his breaths in the dark. His hands ached, blood singing through them once more. Tarkin was staring down at him, an unusual color to his cheeks, and he noted the addition of fresh crimson to the corner of his lips. His tongue darted out, serpentine and glossy, swiping it up. His rasp, when it echoed forth in the still chamber, was haunting and hollow:

“You’re far too trusting, _darling_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I'll get back to the canon story now...
> 
> I may write more with this AU later though. Thoughts?
> 
> Also, yes, the beast Galen references (Gogmazios) is from Monster Hunter.


	13. Mistake (Tarkin/Galen Gift to Wilhuffnpuff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen makes a clerical error, Tarkin wants to know why.
> 
> ((Here's your chapter @wilhuffnpuff, hope you enjoy!))

“How many seconds, sir?” The ensign called over the com frequency, a lance of static puncturing the beginning of his question as he came into range, and Galen watched as the skeleton of the Death Star came into view. He nearly rolled his eyes. The project he had started in his youth, a planet meant to house and save lives, had a much different title before Krennic had come along and fed it to the Empire. _Mon Repos_ … It was in his room, resting on his desk. Filled with more glass and wood and plants, ready to help an entire civilization.

 _My place of rest…_ Galen closed his eyes, letting the stagnant shift of air that followed any communication, send him to the place he’d dreamed of; his masterpiece, made of the music only found where peoples met and spoke, in their strange accents and dialects. He could imagine building on, improving, upgrading, spending his whole life in the warming embrace of his work as it spiraled endlessly from moon to sun.

“One-hundred-eight,” Galen replied, voice steady but layered in fatigue. He bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a yawn, gaze drifting over the carefully laid plans, noting the addition of a few stains along the lines in his palms. Krennic had made a few… changes earlier. He nearly sighed. All the plans he had conceived to stall the Death Star’s creation, had become unnecessary in the face of his former friend’s eccentric ways. _Now I know why Professor Daedalus always said to never partner with another Engineer, unless you had likeminded methods_. During another class, they had taken measures to find out each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and who best to be partnered with for the upcoming end term project…

Professor Daedalus had told them to play games against one another – ones heavily ruled by strategy and forethought, but that wasn’t the only thing he was looking for. Before they had begun, he had shown them each of the games available: Go, Chess, Checkers, and… a strange one, involving miniature models. He explained that within a week, they would play, and in the meantime, they should gather information. In truth, he wanted to give the individuals who wished to play the game with miniatures, time to piece them together and paint them. Galen was one of them. He found out later that Krennic had chosen chess, as he deemed the miniature one childish.

Galen hid them from him, working on the intricate soldiers in the late evening, scrolling through the rules, and learning each of the legionnaires abilities. By Monday, he was well versed, having memorized every scrap of knowledge he could about his army. Orson had scoffed, rolling his eyes, but his smile was playful. “I figured you’d enjoy playing with toys! Well, go on, go play with your little men!” Something glittered in his sky orbs, something soft and like the dew that came to rest on the leaves in the early morn of summer. “You better not lose!”

He didn’t.

“It’s not working, sir!” Galen looked up, his brow furrowing, and angled his mouth to blow his bangs back from his face. A boyish habit he’d never quite broken himself of.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not working, Lieutenant Erso!” Poor lad sounded panicked, terrified he’d done something wrong. Galen smiled softly, as if he were there, and the gesture would calm him.

“It’s alright, just tell me what’s happening, we’ll figure it out.” He replied, voice soft and gentle, as he’d use with Jyn when she cried into his shoulder – her little knee scraped, with tiny droplets of blood staining her torn pants.

“Well sir, it keeps buckling, seems like it won’t hold!” The ensign’s panic had abated, replaced with relieved confusion, palpable even in space. Galen’s jaw rolled, gaze lowering to the schematic on the table… That couldn’t be right…

 _One-hundred-eight_.

He closed his eyes, sighing heavily out his nose.

“Sir?” The young man asked over the com, a little more curious this time. “Do you think it’s the durasteel? I mean, I could crank up the heat, but I wouldn’t want to melt it all the way through…” Clever boy, though, that wasn’t the answer.

“No, sorry, miscalculation on my part. One-hundred-twenty seconds – two minutes, that ought to do it.” Galen murmured sheepishly, trying his best to ignore the sudden burn in his ears, and the chill that descended upon his shoulders. Sure enough, two minutes later:

“That did it sir! Thank you!” The ensign’s jovial voice fizzled in, the com relay crackling a little with the shock of his mirth. Galen winced through a smile.

“You’re welcome. If that’ll be all, I’ll be departing the bridge.” After stepping quickly through the usual pleasantries, nodding to the Storm Troopers as he passed, Galen found himself striding slowly to his room. He ducked through an alcove, a harsh breath warped through his teeth as he ran a clammy hand through his hair.

“If your frequent bouts of insomnia are beginning to affect your duties,” the icy timbre stalked him through the dim corridor, wrapping irons around his ankles, and he stopped with a ragged breath. “I might suggest visiting the infirmary.” Still, so still, he could see fat flakes of particles and dust, filtering through the dull red glow of the light above them. “Though,” the voice shifted, the hoarseness suddenly emphasized by the purr that rumbled forth, “certain methods have already proven fruitful in treating such an ailment.” Cold stroked his nape, a shiver working down his spine as his eyes lulled, and he felt the pressure bleed onto the fingers that parted his hair, stroking the muscles into complacency.

They rose, petting the early morning shadow on his face, ghosting along the curve of his cheek, and crossed the bridge of his nose with the same pace. Tarkin fingers eclipsed his eyes, cupping his brow, and he felt the same infantile fear all did, when the darkness swooped down to take them suddenly. Galen felt as if he were falling, to the delight of the beast who had caught him. His heart skipped a beat, spearing a fresh ache through his chest and lungs, down to his toes.

His head was brought back to a strong shoulder, body caving, arching, to fill the spaces between the body behind him. Clean and fresh, a purple petal landing upon his nose, and underneath, something wilder lurked, more vicious than the place that had made him. Or perhaps he had made The Carrion. Maybe it had been made for him. Heat branched out everywhere they touched; Tarkin’s lean chest caving to facilitate the bend of his spine, body turning to cradle his waist into the sharp juncture of his hips.

Galen sighed, eased by the steady pulse he could feel against his back, through the layers and layers of their respective uniforms. “It is not that I don’t approve of proper, self-medication Governor,” he murmured, his words light and lazy, “but… The momentary lapse was still correct by the time I was keeping.”

He could feel his brow rising, the sharp, thin line of it intrigued. A little by his words, more so by his attitude.

“Truly?” He kept his voice low, hyper aware of any unwanted attention that might come, but also to somewhat veil the extent of his injuries. “Your sleeplessness implies that your duties are taxing enough, without inventing new methods of keeping time, I might suggest postponing such ventures until you’ve taken care of certain other… trivialities.” Galen nearly chuckled, lolling his head back to nuzzle the other’s jaw. Tarkin returned the affection by brushing his thin lips against his cheek.

“Yes sir.” He hummed, a sudden, stray thought taking hold of his mouth. “Bradycardia.” A pause followed.

“Explain, Lieutenant Engineer Erso.” The Grand Moff rumbled, too languid to be a command, and yet too rough to be a question.

“Generally, adult human hearts beat sixty to a hundred times a minute, higher for younger people, and lower for older.” Galen whispered. “It doesn’t mean there are underlying diseases – it can be caused by many things: family history, high fitness levels, sleep, or meditative breathing.

“One-hundred-eight…” Galen continued, feeling the steady thrums that had inspired his new internal clock against this own, creating a tune together. “Was correct, based on the seventy-seven-thousand-seven-hundred-sixty beats that occur every day.”

Tarkin was silent. Galen counted to fifty. The Governor inhaled rather sharply, though he certainly wouldn’t call it a gasp, and let out the same breath as something dangerously close to a sigh. A warm kiss was pressed to his neck, right under his jaw, and he felt Tarkin’s nose graze his cheek as he rose. They pressed to the cleft above his chin this time, under his full lower lip, and though a brief – too brief – brush made sparks of color appear in the warm darkness, the Grand Moff continued upwards. His mouth brushed Galen’s nose, warm breath stroking his hot cheek, and he steered his head to pillow along his collar. Finally, he pressed them to the ridge under his hairline, thin waves of heat, dry and yet he was drowned in their affection.

“ _Galen_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name Galen originally wanted to give the Death Star (though I think the DS really does belong to Krennic, since they very clearly wanted two different things), was the name Peter Cushing A.K.A Tarkin's actor, wanted to give it... But he wasn't consulted. It really does mean: "my place of rest". Ironic, right? I'm sure if Tarkin knew what Galen originally had in mind he'd approve.
> 
> The game with miniatures is something else Peter Cushing really enjoyed. I don't remember the exact game he played, but he did play something similar to Warhammer that involved lots of complicated rules and movements. Maybe Galen and Tarkin will play a round later. ;)
> 
> Daedalus is the name of Icarus' father from mythology, if you were curious and recognized the name, but couldn't place it. (Trust me, this happens to me all the time, and I wish when people used famous names from mythology in their writing, they'd reference back to it.)
> 
> Bradycardia is a real thing as well, and I thought it would be interesting to attribute to Tarkin.


	14. Dark Matter (??????/Galen SithAU!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen leaves base without telling anyone. He's pursued by a dangerous Sith.
> 
> ((This is a monster and I have so many regrets.))

The rain came down in heavy sheets, the rocks and outcroppings turning black in the downpour, jutting spires cloaked in the coming shadows of night. It made them longer, taller, as if they were reaching to swallow the sky, and stars beyond. Occasionally, Galen could see a break in the grey-blue clouds above, letting the last strokes of twilight bleed through. It smelled clean, too clean, the salt of the sea burning his nostrils. Lightning flashed, his pupils aching with the familiar pain that came when someone flicked on his study lamp too fast, and the thunder that followed had his knees buckling. He looked up, head twisting quickly, nearly pulling a muscle in his neck as he surveyed the cliff above… Nothing. It was famous for running over the tunnels below, filling the floors with mud, and all the staff was thankful for that. At least it wasn’t a cave in.

The base lights glistened off the nearby boulders as he made his way out, puddles sloshing and ruining his socks, toes curling against the shock of ice that seemed to overtake them. His nose burned, running with the hot itch of drainage, warning him to return indoors. He rubbed it away with the inside of his sleeve, sniffling in the gloom, but continued his trek.

A small ‘path’, hidden by the weeping branches of a nearby, spindly bit of brush that had managed to hang just so over the beaten ground. Galen had nurtured it for the last few months, caring little for its nature or belonging, determined to add some form of life to the drudge of their base. There were plants elsewhere he knew, flowers and edible vegetation for the fauna that inhabited the planet… But this was the only one near the base within ten kilometers. It had found a purpose, in the end, cleverly obscuring the little niche of dirt – now mud – that careened precariously down the cliffside.

Galen sighed, angling his mouth to blow his rain heavy bangs back from his face, but only ended up spraying water along his cheek. He chuckled, hot breath turned to smoke before his face, and rubbed his pen calloused fingers over his eyes to rid them of the sleepy crust that had settled on them. Numb fingers gripped the jagged face of a rock, aware of its slick nature, and the nonexistent traction on Imperial boots. Instead of lifting his feet, trying to seek stable ground, he simply slid them down along the undergrowth. He winced, inches upon inches of wet earth sticking in along the sole and heel, but it offered him some form of resistance the more he dug in.

 _Krennic would have an epiphany._ His former friend, now Director of the ‘Death Star’ project, was due back for a status report in two days’ time. The look of shock and horror he would undoubtedly have given at the state of his mud flecked (because there was no way he would have the time or care enough to scrape all of it off), white scuffed, and heavily scored boots made him snort. A boyish grin found its way onto his face, a sort of strange exuberance gripping his chest, and his heart fluttered with the sudden echo of thunder, that followed a splintering of pallid veins across the blackened flesh of the sky.

He journeyed down, shoulders growing heavier with the added weight of his sopping uniform, and bent his knees to steadily distribute his weight further back. His hands gripped the rocks on either side of him, using them to steady his awkward shifts, but he dared not lean towards one. Galen paused at the base of the ravine, tracing the thirty or so yards he’d had to descend, and then slowly lowered his gaze to rest on the carved stone that awaited at the bottom. Well, that was making light of its condition… It had been gouged, rather roughly, and left with a jagged burn, blacker than the rain could ever make it at the edges.

Another lance puncturing the dark, Galen’s head rising in the eerie silence that always followed, but the roar was bellied by the mountains. The sizzle of the saber, however, was not. The engineer halted, breath stuttering, and the wind whipped the lank strands that clung to his brow into a frenzy. They danced across his vision, making strange patterns on the black and winding grey of the Sith’s robes, though the carved edges of his helm did that on their own. A long, thin visor lead down into a mouthless void, swirls ending in sharp dives and curls, the darkness palpable and contained only by the edges of his hood. The rain seemed to be moving around him, nature repelled by his very being, but the silvery light that mirrored the fleeting, splintering destruction above, crackled with every droplet.

 _What are we, if not slaves to chaos_? Galen paused, the tenor of his heart a staccato in his ears. _Some men are foolish enough to call it fate_ … _but it was the Force that gave us free will._ His brow furrowed, the somber prick of tears at the corners of his vision, only discernable by the way they burned his cheeks, hotter than the salted rain. Bitter on his tongue, they seared his cheeks, and he knew they would be more than enough to drown his grave in regrets. _Then what choice was it, I wonder, that brought me here_?

Galen’s knees trembled, briefly, a fear that wasn’t really his anymore. It belonged to a man much younger than him, though not for want of years, but for lack of faith. He swallowed, abandoning it, barely casting a second thought to the man with his wife’s blood under his nails, and his daughter’s name half spoken on his cracked lips. He was dead, better off forgotten.

Just like the twenty-five-year-old boy, climbing out of a shared bed on the Imperial hub of Eriadu, hoping his lover wouldn’t come back, and that he might slip out without a whisper. And yet… there was a selfish part of him that had prayed to the Force he’d appear in the doorway, with sharp, grim features, and a glacier that would halt him upon the precipice. He’d read out the truth, of course he would, and the narrowing of that eye, the betrayal that would melt away enough of the ice to see the hardened sapphire underneath. That… that would have been the most deserved, agonizing punishment he would receive.

“Darth Skoll…” Galen remembered aloud, voice nearly overtaken by the thunder that followed the other’s appearance. He was a Sith Lord of some renown, harboring more mystery than the Emperor himself, known for his ruthless cruelty when it came to Rebel spies… His specialty. _I bet he’d enjoy being in my mind_ … He was certain he had enough pain and remorse for the other to feed off for the rest of his days. But the plan was already in motion, well beyond delay, and Krennic would face disaster if it came to light. Not that he cared. All that mattered, here and now, all that ever had since the day she’d taken her first breath – was Jyn.

It happened in a flash, barely a second, and the moving shadow atop the cliff had descended in a whirl of silver and darkness. Galen’s feet were slick, weighted down by mud, but he hadn’t been lazy during his time in the base. Expertly, he turned on his heel, a memory flittering across his eyes in the breadth of a blue jay’s wing.

A feather had landed in his hand, pristine and magnificent, white and downy at the beginning, before it turned ebony in a blink. For the most part, it was a brilliant azure, ethereal and strange in his pale hands. He’d smiled, subtly wrapping it in a cloth, and pressed it between the pages of the only book his father had ever given him – a large tome on painting of all things. There wasn’t any room for that at the Academy though, and he missed the slick, cool feeling of the oil on his fingers.

A cluster of boys stood at the ready on the other side of the room, backs straight, and eyes trained ahead. He remembered rising, jogging over to join them just before the instructor opened the great doors with a flourish, his eyes a green Galen had never been quite able to describe. Later, he’d attribute them to the mossy water on Eriadu, brimming with life, but with something deadly lurking underneath.

He was different from the other teachers, loud and bright, with wavy black curls going down his nape from under his hat, and a scar that puckered the length of his jaw. He told them how to take a man down, what to do if they were ever outnumbered, and how every part of them was just an extension of a greater whole. Most men forgot about their legs in a brawl, how strong and limber they could be.

In the beginning, none of them had any amount of finesse, and even though Galen lacked just as much, there was no denying he possessed an aptitude most others lacked. He swept out of the way, his movements jerky sometimes, but there was a certain amount of grace that bellied every stride he made. Adrenaline was the enemy, he knew, and he took great strides in evading it as long as he could… _Just move. Keep moving and don’t let them hit you_.

He hated the sound of skin hitting skin, a brutal snap, and the blood and teeth that came later. When every punch was tossed with anger, all kicks meant to break bones, and every tooth on the floor was just a score for the other lad. But they never hit him. Galen merely waited, bating till the last second, scuffs and maybe a few, small bruises from grazes forming, but never beyond that. His instructor counted off for his pacifism, more out of concern for what he’d do in a real struggle, but he passed the course. The only one where he received average marks.

Galen started down a rocky path, lungs hammering against his bones. His heart beat in time with the thunder behind his eyes. It was hard to see, between the sheets of rain, but he heard the _crack_ before it happened. Boulders slid and tumbled, shattering against each other, and rushed towards him through the haze.

They diverted at the last second, bending unnaturally at an awkward angle off a cliffside, but they barred his escape along a narrow straight. His eyes darted back, taking in the risen hand and glowing saber at the Sith Lord’s side.

Galen doubled back, following the grooved steps of rock and mud, navigating the glistening slate on either side of him. Darth Skoll followed, cape billowing behind him, strides long and rapid. He found it akin to the panthers he’d watched across the steppes, their black bodies roving under the moonlight, mouths hanging open to taste the air. He remembered the one that raised its head, flashing jade orbs through the tall grass. The way it had seen him, as he watched it stalk, knowing that it wasn’t alone.

His father was bickering with his mother in the other room. All he had to do was turn his head to see their shadows. The rifle had dust on it, hanging above the hearth, but he knew his father was a sharp marksman during his Republic days. He could get up, walk inside without fear. He should go into his room, it wouldn’t follow him there, it couldn’t… But he felt, just by staring into its wide, glowing gaze, that he was defying death.

He felt that way now, boots sloshing through the undergrowth, too loud even between the water that came down and the roar of the clouds above. It shook the ground. Galen nearly lost his footing, leather scraping through dried bramble as he navigated his way down. Another slide, closer this time, and he just managed to lift his head to catch the first rumble as it cascaded down with a flowing pipeline.

He tumbled back, rolling out of the way, the mud caking his back and shirt, as it soared off the ledge and into the canyon below. His palms felt too slick, with sweat and rain, as they gripped a nearby outcropping. Galen looked up, noting the way the Sith had stopped, hand slowly lowering.

He was being corralled. A hunter luring the game, directing it where he wanted it to go, before he gutted it at his leisure. _Fitting_. Galen thought, muscles singing with the familiar, hateful bite of adrenaline. It made his neck throb, as did his fingers, numbness overtaking them as well as his feet. He had no plan, and that was perhaps better than having one carefully laid out on blue parchment. Orson had never approved of the messy disarray that came from improvising, his nose wrinkling at the mere mention. It always made him smile.

He drew back, strides unhurried and hesitant, a mockery of fear as he drew his shoulders down and in. The air shifted, the icy needles of rain puncturing to his marrow, but he blamed the sudden shudder that ran down his spine on the Sith before him. Darth Skoll tilted his head, the wisps of his helm mimicking the flow of the cold breeze as he made to scale the way he had come…

Before he turned, running hard, fast, the world turning into muted grey and brown – He jumped. Normal men couldn’t do what Jedi and Sith could, Bounty Hunters maybe, with the help of their tools and equipment, but Galen had learned years ago what a desperate man was capable of… He tumbled, rolled, shoulders and back slamming into the opposite side with a force that jarred his teeth in his head. His bones twisted, vision spinning, and the pain didn’t cease. Something gave.

He’d counted on so many things, impossibilities really, but Jyn had told him that she believed as many as seven impossible things before breakfast. She’d learned that from Alice. He laughingly told Lyra they should really start limiting the fiction their daughter read, especially when she started looking for rabbit holes, and talking about being late to places she didn’t have to be.

It was the earth, not him, that was breaking away from the ravine, spiraling down in a sound louder than the thunder above. But he jerked at the last second, held still and dangling over the edge. Galen could see his end staring at him from below, a deep river, but at least five hundred yards away. Probably more. His neck lolled, sediment burning his tongue, and itching along his entire body. He ached, a steady throb washing over him, gaze turning to find his savior. He stood perhaps a few feet from him, hand outstretched, the silver of his saber scorching everything around it. Galen could feel it from here, practically crackling along his lashes, and he let his head fall back.

“You should let me fall.”

He expected hesitance, perhaps a desire for his death outweighing any lingering usefulness he might have. Galen steeled himself for the fall, the rushing wind in his ears, and the cold that would numb him. He prepared for the darkness that would eclipse his eyes, the way his lungs would stop working, and the drop that would inevitably shatter him into a crimson smear across the crag below. Some of his limbs would be scattered, organs pulverized, bones cracked open with the marrow leaking out.

 _Pain_. One word that his mind clung to, the only thing that could describe the sensation that robbed him of sight and sound, side aching with the sudden shift. He’d been spiraling through the air, sky and earth becoming one, and then... He sucked in a ragged breath, nails gouging the dirt, raising red at their edges. His bloodshot orbs burned, a foggy layer of glass overtaking the world as he struggled to right himself, the sudden lack of rain and wind leaving him staggering.

He tried to crawl, futile as it was, choking on the lingering tendrils of anguish. His lungs suddenly emptied, belly slammed into the dirt by a push he couldn’t fight, the Force shackling his limbs to the dry rock and earth. Galen’s knees were drawn together, waist forced to rise from it’s position, even as his spine bent unnaturally to allow his chest to remain rooted to the floor. He inhaled sharply, dust swirling before his mouth as he turned his neck to catch sight of the Sith.

Darth Skoll had seen fit to slam him into an overpass, against the wall, and then pinned him to the floor with a twitch of his wrist. Galen thought to struggle, but every muscle was forced to tense, turned to stone by the drag of the Force through every drop of blood in him. He narrowed his eyes on a rock a few feet away, breathing heavy, and listened to the fizzle of Sith’s saber. He clipped it to his waist, striding over slowly, but his gait was tense and measured.

It started as a rip along his nape, following the curve and dip of his back, barely pausing to snap his belt, and continue with his pants. His boots were shredded, torn by what he could swear were teeth, but all he could see Darth Skoll. He was turned, his back slamming against the earth, and the other strode around him. Slowly, he knelt, Galen’s legs made to open to accommodate him. He felt a flush rise, along his face and ears, dappling his neck and chest as his blood started to burn.

The Sith reached out, using his physical hand to casually sweep away the remainder of his clothes. Galen’s teeth ground in his ears, an action that the other either didn’t notice or didn’t care, the leather of his glove cold as it splayed across his collar. Five points of contact, his fingers, stroking down over his chest, and along his ribs. They diverted, changing direction when they met a freckle or a scar, crisscrossing every which way, until they finally settled on the puckered laser burn that Orson had given him…

A reminder of why one didn’t ever try to run from the Empire.

The Force traveled through his legs, compelling his knees to bend, and legs to rise. He couldn’t stop the hiss that came from between his teeth, trying his best to remain calm. The hand moved up, leather pushing open his mouth, and three fingers dipped inside the hot, wet heat past his lips. Galen shuddered, his tongue working over the salty, bitter tang of his glove. They were cold, hard and unrelenting as they pressed down, forcing him to wet every inch of them.

Slowly, they withdrew, the Sith Lord seemingly content with his work, and lowered his hand to begin stroking at his entrance. His hips relaxed against his will, the Force working through his system, and his knees spread wider, inviting the touch. He rolled his neck, denying the surge of warmth, the twitch of his cock betraying him as he fought a shudder. One finger – long and covered in quickly heating leather – started to press inside. Galen’s eyes fluttered shut, momentarily succumbing to the strange familiarity with which it petted him, convincing his traitorous body to allow easy entry… Well, easier than if he were as tense as his mind wanted him to be. Slender as it was, the finger paused, not hesitant, but… curious.

It began to explore, sweeping delicately across his walls, before another was added, and his breath hitched at the entry. A little past the second knuckle they both stopped, curling, and stroking precariously closer to the spot that would make Galen moan, despite his efforts to clench his teeth. His abdomen tensed, back rising slowly as the Force dragged his baser desires to the surface, and the fingers teasingly circled where they seemingly knew he would gain the most pleasure. Galen trembled, calves tensing out of habit, and mouth dropping open.

 _No, no, - yes, I –_ They pressed, suddenly, sharply, and he keened with the strange pleasure that Lyra had never been able to supply him. He’d never asked her to, the ecstasy an itch that he’d denied till he could satiate it in the tool shed, ashamed and needing. Eventually, as the years passed, he’d learned to ignore it and be content with her affections. Now, it returned in full force, fattening his tongue, and left him at the mercy of a Sith Lord.

The man in question gave no response, simply worked him open with two, and then three fingers. He prodded and toyed, noting the twitch of his cock, the motions that left him biting his lips and closing his eyes, the ones that made his toes curl and breaths stutter. How he tossed his head back and bared his throat, arms and legs bunching, and what made his channel clench. His erection wept, laying against his stomach, round and hot in the cold air.

Eventually, they were removed, and all Galen could bare to take in was the shift of Skoll’s dark robes as they unfolded. With patience that most men were incapable of, the Sith raised his legs, and began the steady push inside him. The engineer tried to move, to lash out, but he couldn’t… The Force was still taking his strength, sapping him of all his will. Galen panted, arching in pleasure and an attempt to escape, his body stretching far more than it had done in decades.

It ached, though he couldn’t call it painful, as much as he wanted to, an unpleasant stretch that he was unaccustomed to. Full, full, hot and pulsing. Darth Skoll pressed into his prostate without trying, his body hovering over Galen, leather digging savagely into his hips to grind him against him. He could feel the push of his balls, tight and hard, throbbing against him as he did inside. _Too much…_ The Sith had barely drawn out and he felt as if he were being struck a blow, lungs trying and failing to allow him breath.

 _Please_ … Pain and pleasure. That was what his world had become, the former a welcome companion, a seeming constant one for all his life. The latter brief and unwanted, stealing all the light from his eyes, and robbing the sound from behind them. Galen groaned, hands tightening into fists, nails biting into his palm, trying to stave off the inevitable. He could feel it, the familiar but vile roil in his gut, fanning outwards, and forcing a halted cry from his lips.

He rocked, hips swirling up, the invading pressure suddenly too much, but the Lord followed with a cruel push. He writhed, suddenly free enough for his legs to circle the shockingly slim waist, and dirty heels to dig into the other’s back. Galen’s cock ached, spasming across his chest, the Sith’s hand pressing it down so he’d soil himself.

His head pounded, mouth open and chest heaving. His cum was already drying on his stomach, long streaks on the pale expanse, rolling along the lines of his muscles sluggishly. Galen felt something hot and wet itch along his cheek, trailing into the flaking mud on his brow. The Sith was still hard inside him, throbbing to counterpoint the sudden clench of his insides, the Lord’s chest rising and falling slowly.

Galen struck out, for the first time in his life, giving into the deep, hateful smolder in his chest. _I should have done this to Orson. I should have died with Lyra on that rock_. He could feel the Force around him, trembling with volatile wrath before, now it pressed down, sapping the air straight from his lungs. _Go ahead_ … He didn’t care if he suffocated him, if he drained the life from him that he shouldn’t have.

His wife was gone, so was his daughter, Jyn. _Stardust_. All the years seemed pointless suddenly, useless and wasted. He hoped Krennic would strike his name from the Death Star, let him take credit for the monstrosities birth, leave him to rot in the earth where he belonged. He only prayed that his little girl would be safe, from the creature that her mother’s blood had been sacrificed for, that she’d not join the multitudes that would no doubt fall before it.

 _Because that’s all they’ll be in the end…_ Something clattered away, the throb of that cock inside of him making his world spin, and bile rise in his throat. _Stardust._

There was another, far more selfish reason for this, for the suicidal struggle he continued, despite the Force pressing his wrists into the dirt. Wilhuff Tarkin had been the last man inside him. The first to stroke his face in the early morn, the only that had brushed his hair back to look into his earthen irises, and the one that had been his love first. Before Lyra or Jyn, even Krennic, in his own way, it had been the Governor of Eriadu that had known the intimacy of his kiss and the softness of his voice when given pleasure.

He was his, the only man in the entire universe who he would ever –

“ _Wilhuff_ …” Disbelief. Agony. Regret. It poured out in two syllables, a newfound sorrow gripping his chest to where he felt it might sunder open.

He had changed – chestnut had faded to ash, one glacier melting into a fiery pool of blood, and there were lines that foretold the years of their separation far better than his own. There were ivory marks as well, one along his lips, exposing the sharp edge of one canine through a triangular peak, the rest flowing downwards as a white stream to his jaw. Three more of varying lengths over the changed orb, and a last curving along the ridge of his cheek, twisted along the bridge of his nose. Galen wanted to reach out, to stroke each pain he had known, as if he could somehow soothe their memories as he… He should have been there to do.

As if sensing his thoughts, Tarkin rocked sharply into him, a snarl warping the marred corner of his mouth. Galen groaned, arching his back, inviting the sentence that the older man meted out, that made briars wind in with his veins, choking his resolve. He continued a punishing rhythm, if one could call it that, though it resembled more of a primal rut.

“Please… Please, let me – “To ensure his mind was not lying to him, supplying him with the one thing that would keep him sane, keep him alive till his heart turned to dust in his chest.

“No.” Hollow and ravenous, demanding surrender where Galen had already given it. He would always give it to him. He fell silent, head falling back, but unable to take his eyes off the flicker of anger and nigh hatred that riddled Tarkin’s countenance. The older man shifted, the harsh rise of his hips digging into him in a way that had him groaning through clenched teeth, wrists and arms flexing with the need to wrap around him.

He contented himself by doing so with his legs, calves flexing, drawing him closer bit by bit. Still malleable and far stronger than when he was just a lad of fifteen, he clasped his knees into the other’s waist, doing his best to rock in time with the unforgiving snap of Tarkin’s hips. Something stroked his sides, though he was able to dully note the continued grip of leather at his hips through everything, he had little time to wonder where the caresses came from.

They were featherlight at first, his stomach already furling with heat, and his cock started to harden again. His head shifted, trying to find the source, but all he felt was the continued, strengthening press. Formless, no hands, no tongue, but an undeniable weight that was hard enough to indent his skin. They stroked like silk over his chest, along the stretched tendons in his arms, and then down the outsides of his thighs.

He groaned, Tarkin’s body suddenly resting overtop his, the hot, thick wool of his robes draping over him as they started loosening. Their chests traded space, collapsing to allow the other time to rise, and Galen gulped down a ragged sigh. The invisible strokes had started touching where they were joined, testing the limits of his body by rubbing against this abused entrance. Wilhuff gave a closed mouth grunt, gripping tighter, bruises already forming in the juncture of Galen’s hips where he had taken him earlier.

The engineer hissed, rolling his head back, and arched into Tarkin as the Force – it was the Force – started working on his chest. The tendrils twisted his nipples, then soothed them, dug into the smooth, long lines of his stomach, following the intimate dive to his erection. Galen huffed, moaned, biting off noises till his lips turned puffy and glistened. Wilhuff lowered his head, burying it into his collar as his thrusts became shorter and quicker.

“ _Galen_ …” His orbs sought Tarkin’s in an instant, flickering in the gloom, and what he saw nearly made him sob. His hair was curled up in plumes, scars bright against the darkness that made caverns of his cheeks and jaw, and his lips were thin and smooth. But his eyes – Everything shifted on its axis, Tarkin staying buried inside of him, but the position changed. The Sith’s back hit the underpass’s wall, legs drawn up to cradle him close, and his knees bracketed his lean waist. Tarkin’s arms tightened around him, drawing him into his chest, and he – finding his own free – quickly wrapped them around his shoulders. His fingers knotted into his robes, finding the pull of lean muscle waiting underneath, accented by the jut of each bone.

Their mouths met, heat and need meeting at the precipice, and Wilhuff released a low groan into his throat. Tarkin broke it almost as soon as he’d started it – brief, barely a taste, but it turned the fire that curled through him into an inferno.

“Move.” He barked, though the command itself was subdued. Galen rocked, slowly at first, building a tempo that quickly fell out of his control. They were too close as it was, hands – leather and skin – gripping to bruise, stroking to soothe, biting to mark, and seeking to remember. His temples throbbed, the rush of blood making his head hurt, but it was dull compared to the ache inside and around him, made palpable by the weave of the Force around them.

“Wil – Wil, now – I can’t…” Breathy, lost in the sudden lash of white across the sky, a crescendo to blot out the cry that left his lungs. His body clenched, stuffed and boiling from the inside out, Tarkin’s erection seeming to swell till it burst, and he was powerless but to join. Ice and blood, black and white, it all flickered faster than he could see, but he knew where he could place each. He thought he heard him grunt, breaths brushing his hair, hands tightening till Galen’s bones ground together…

His lungs heaved, weighted down, blistering between the air of the cold storm, and the flame that Wilhuff had stoked through every inch of him. Galen’s arms went limp, leaden around the Sith Lord’s neck, but his throbbing fingers remained stubbornly tight in the thick robes that lined the ridges of his jutting shoulders. He panted against his chest, vision blurring with the burn of fresh tears, and his ribs ached with already forming bruises. He felt full, intimately aware of the softened cock and hot essence that were rooted firmly inside of him, and he took a shaky breath to feel Wilhuff twitch once more, lingering aftereffects still making their way through them.

“ _Galen_ …” Again, hissed against his sopping wet hair, the combination of rain, sweat, and tears making the muggy air nigh unbearable. Tarkin’s arms held strong to his waist, barring any threats from invading the sanctuary of his body against his own, and the older man pressed sharp, rough kisses to his shoulder and up his neck. A vicious shudder worked up his spine, every brush of the Governor’s thin lips bringing a rush of blistering breath along his skin, worse than any steam.

He turned his head, catching his mouth, and tongues quickly joined in a dance that was familiar and yet strange. Savage and hungry, Wilhuff made to devour him, taking everything he had to offer with a sharp nip to his lower lip, and a pull to his upper. Galen left himself open, inviting the attack, inhaling sharply through his nose, and moving his head to allow their mouths to slant. Their lips rubbed till they were raw, slower and yet no less frenzied than earlier, tongues stroking and melding into a current.

Tarkin growled when he pulled away, swooping in to claim him again, and a faint groan worked from his lungs. No respite was to be had for him, lips sucked till they were dry, then made wet again by the glide of the Sith’s tongue. One of Wilhuff’s hands rose, leather screeching as it fisted in the dusty, greying strands of his scalp, and angled him. Galen submitted again and again, knowing better than to resist, each kiss becoming shorter, but he was held in place so all he knew was the taste of the Governor’s breath.

It was hot and filled with a spice he could not name, something tropical and yet smooth, but he could discern the bitter tang underneath. It wasn’t unpleasant, not in the slightest, but it took a moment for his oxygen deprived brain to pick up the crisp flavor that could no doubt be tea. Finally, after many long moments, Tarkin let his head lull against his own chest, his arm lowering to bracket his hips once more.

The Grand Moff nuzzled him, forcing his neck to strain and lift, their foreheads pressing together in an instant. Galen huffed, flushed cheeks and nose brushing Wilhuff’s, and he opened his bleary eyes to take in the furrow of the other’s brow and pursed line of his puffed lips. He wanted to kiss him again. Instead, he licked his own, collecting the already drying taste from there, contenting himself with the momentary, tranquil silence. He felt the slow drag of Tarkin’s thumb against his lower back, casually swirling at the base of his spine, and finally managed a few precious syllables:

“Wilhuff,” he might have winced had he cared, at the broken rasp that echoed forth, but it was worth it to watch the almost blackened sapphire and swirling ruby depths open, to gaze at him with barely guised endearment. “Your gloves… Please, I want to feel your hands.” Softer this time, so that the hissing grate of his voice wouldn’t ruin the quiet shift of the rain, now nothing more than a drizzle. Galen suppressed the whimper that nearly bubbled up when his arms left him.

Tarkin tugged them off with something bordering impatience, black leather nearly ripped between his ivory teeth, which speared up from his glistening, crimson gums in a fashion resembling fangs. Galen had no chance to prepare, none to admire, as long, keen fingers dug in at his hips. He jerked, torn between a gasp and a moan, his dull nails clawing at cotton robes, as he sought something to hold onto. Tarkin’s eyes sparked, with fire and mirth, a small smirk nearly unfurling at one corner of his mouth.

They weren’t cold as one might expect, instead they burned hotter than a brand, nearly scorching him despite the pleasant rush left behind from – from… His mind whited out, hips obeying the gentle press of those fingers, the rough and yet smooth palms that goaded them to roll just so. Galen choked on a groan, eyes fluttering. He’d lost the capacity to even beg, somewhere in the euphoria that blinded him, becoming soft and pliant to even the gentlest touch from Wilhuff’s clever hands.

The Sith Lord chuckled, the vibrations sending a shiver through him, straight to his spent cock. He let out the quietest whimper as the foreskin grazing the older man’s robes roughly, thighs shaking as he forced them to shift and help him rise on Tarkin’s lap, the length inside of him already growing thicker and warmer by the second. Galen heard him hum, a gentle sound he never would have attributed to the Governor of Eriadu, but his hands, lovely and with fingers he’d let play him as the violinist did the strings, steadied his gait, helping him lower himself and rise once again.

“Galen…” A hush, less than a whisper, a wraith’s melody that echoed along the rocks. His teeth scraped wrong, the hot gush of iron layering across his tongue, but it was the sound of his name that had him choking on a scream. It was swallowed quickly, toyed with, made into a song for the Sith, who took the offering in his mouth, and blessed him with devotion that left him voiceless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shitty summary is shitty.
> 
> Basically, Wilhuff is secretly a Sith Lord, and most people don't know. He's a total badass and doesn't take kindly to Galen walking out on him... This is totally unedited and raw straight from my flashdrive... Which means I'm probably going to edit it a lot later. YAY!


	15. Feast (Tarkin/Galen Ft. Krennic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin delivers a swift and painful lesson on the best ways to uphold his most treasured rule: restraint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin is a bastard. That is all.

“Galen.” Hunger and vicious hate, no affection, only anger that was used to bring him higher with a violent push of hips. He sucked in a breath, trapped in Krennic’s wide, glittering skies, and on the end of the Grand Moff’s patience. His lungs stuttered, a broken whine splintering from between his swollen lips. He didn’t want to look at Orson, who did little to hide his ravenous desire, biting at his gloves, the leather screeching between the perfect pearls of his teeth.

He’d always wanted him. Galen could see it now, in the naked want that Krennic used to watch every dip and glide of his body, but he couldn’t tell – between the hot curl in his belly, the warm fuzz in his ears, and the cotton and lavender on his tongue, coupled with Tarkin’s bitter musk – if it was jealousy or gluttony. His thighs shook against slender hips, trying so hard to clench, to bring deeper the Grand Moff’s assault. He wanted to raise his head, watch the man above him, to rock till he lost his mind, to spill and bleed and die on Tarkin’s desk, but he couldn’t bring himself to defy the hissed command of his name… So he obeyed. His arms felt dead, biceps tense and tingling, an ache working up to his shoulders as he arched his back impossibly higher, wanting to take more and offer reprieve for his limbs.

Krennic looked ready to pounce, every tense muscle screaming with vibrations that the Engineer could see, or was that the room shaking? Wilhuff’s fingers gouged his hips, slick with precome and sweat, dragging thin lines of red down to his thighs. He hissed, stomach clenching, and balls hurting.

“Wil… W – Wil…” He warned, his anguish reaching a crescendo he could not stop, not unless the other made him, and Galen hoped that the Grand Moff wasn’t feeling half so cruel. Not with Krennic so close, and his trousers so obviously tented. Was that a smear at the end? Or was Galen still imagining things?

He felt what he thought was the burn of fever, the world spinning out of focus, and he struggled for breath as the hot stretch of Tarkin left him gasping. His mouth opened, babbling words he couldn’t understand, but they were undeniably a jumble of: “please, more… I can’t – Wil, Wil!” Then it was just that name, since he couldn’t remember his own, he called out for the other, desperate to be saved from the madness. Even though all he saw was Krennic, spiteful and with bright boyish blues glistening, insatiable, yet forbidden from tasting.

“ _Galen_.” The haze stopped, stalled, the curtain of need shredded under the weight of that voice. A command, simple and true, and he focused on that, dissected it. He gasped, tearing his gaze from Orson’s, and gave into the desire Tarkin would never refuse him…

His hair was a mess, the layers of steely grey falling forward to frame his face, his uniform jacket open to reveal the white button up underneath. It was mostly undone, hiked up to his lower ribs, exposing the lean cords of his stomach, that caved with every breath, and the obscene, damp lay of thatch above his throbbing cock. His eyes looked strange, and Galen realized it was the beginnings of snow upon them, adding a softness he never thought possible to the icy depths. The crest of his cheeks cut to his open jaw, sharp and strong. His lips were parted, tasting and taking as he pleased in equal measure, and he slammed their lips together as the first, consuming waves over took them.

Galen was fairly certain he’d screamed, but Wilhuff swallowed it easily, still swirling his hips in expert flourishes, that sent him tumbling through the abyss of space. He must have careened into a star at some point, because it burned, familiar and wet, his body bowing as he whimpered and writhed atop the great oak. Tarkin’s tongue left a hot trail of brandy and cinnamon along his own, twining and twirling, muffling his release with his own, much softer grunts. He bucked, sensitive and raw, the curl of the older man’s essence inside him leaving him whimpering.

Finally, blessedly, Wil had enough, his hips slowing to a gentle current. Galen all but collapsed, head lolling to the side, shivering in the suddenly cool air of the drawing room, and felt the drag of the softened cock from him. Tarkin never usually left so early, lingering to keep him full and warm, his lean frame a blanket of contentment that he’d only allow after the pleasure of relief had dulled his sense of propriety. But… present company made him withdraw, leaving Galen where he was. Something started to trickle down his thighs, sluggish and hot. A low whine bubbled up, shushed from his lips by a kiss to his collar, wistful fingers pushing back his sweat laden, lank bangs.

“You’re dismissed, Director Krennic,” Wil intoned, voice far away and clipped.

“You **_bastard_**.” Orson hissed, no doubt spitting in his rage.

“I will not repeat myself.” Not a whisper, no, because Tarkin had no time for veiled words. A promise, made sincere by the way the Grand Moff measured and executed every syllable.

“Is that a threat, Governor?” Krennic was too possessive of what wasn’t his, never had been, and it showed in the sneer. A shuffle, no doubt the older man collecting his appearance expertly, making it seem as if he hadn’t just fucked a man to nigh unconsciousness on his desk.

“Make no mistake, Director Krennic,” the steady clap of leather over durasteel, “’threats’ are reserved for those who pose actual danger.” Galen could hear the smile, the way it worked over the stonework of Tarkin’s countenance. “And I find you extremely lacking in such a regard.”


End file.
